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Uncle  Tom’s 

Cabin 

OR 

LIFE  AMONG  THE 

LOWLY 

BY 

HARRIET  BEECHER 

STOWE  ; 

THE  MERSHON  COMPANY  i 

RAHWAY,  N.  ], 

NEW  YORK 

•••  V:  ' 


' 

_  fl 


■ 


PREFACE. 


The  scenes  of  this  story,  as  its  title  indicates,  lie  among  m 
race  hitherto  ignored  by  the  associations  of  polite  and  refined 
society;  an  exotic  race,  whose  ancestors,  born  beneath  a  tropic 
6un,  brought  with  them,  and  perpetuated  to  their  descend¬ 
ants,  a  character  so  essentially  unlike  the  hard  and  dominant 
Anglo-Saxon  race  as  for  many  years  to  have  won  from  it  only 
misunderstanding  and  contempt. 

But  another  and  better  day  is  dawning;  every  influence  of 
literature,  of  poetry,  and  of  art,  in  our  times,  is  becoming 
more  and  more  in  unison  with  the  great  master  chord  of 
Christianity,  “  good  will  to  man.” 

The  poet,  the  painter,  and  the  artist  now  seek  out  and  em¬ 
bellish  the  common  and  gentler  humanities  of  life,  and,  under 
the  allurements  of  fiction,  breathe  a  humanizing  and  subdu¬ 
ing  influence,  favorable  to  the  development  of  the  great  prin¬ 
ciples  of  Christian  brotherhood. 

The  hand  of  benevolence  is  everywhere  stretched  out 
searching  into  abuses,  righting  wrongs,  alleviating  distresses, 
and  bringing  to  the  knowledge  and  sympathies  of  the  world 
the  lowly,  the  oppressed,  and  the  forgotten. 

In  this  general  movement  unhappy  Africa  at  last  is  remem¬ 
bered;  Africa,  who  began  the  race  of  civilization  and  human 
progress  in  the  dim,  gray  dawn  of  early  time,  but  who  for 
centuries  has  lain  bound  and  bleeding  at  the  foot  of  civilized 
and  Christianized  humanity,  imploring  compassion  in  vain. 

But  the  heart  of  the  dominant  race,  who  have  been  her  con¬ 
querors,  her  hard  masters,  has  at  length  been  turned  toward 
her  in  mercy;  and  it  has  been  seen  how  far  nobler  it  is  in 
nations  to  protect  the  feeble  than  to  oppress  them.  Thanks 
be  to  God,  the  world  has  at  last  outlived  the  slave-trade! 

The  object  of  these  sketches  is  to  awaken  sympathy  and 
feeling  for  the  African  race,  as  they  exist  among  us;  to  show 
their  wrongs  and  sorrows,  under  a  system  so  necessarily  cruel 

Ui 


iv 


PREFACE. 


and  unjust  as  to  defeat  and  do  away  the  good  effects  of  all 
that  can  be  attempted  for  them,  by  their  best  friends, 
under  it. 

In  doing  this,  the  author  can  sincerely  disclaim  any  invidi* 
ous  feeling  toward  those  individuals  who,  often  without  any 
fault  of  their  own,  are  involved  in  the  trials  and  embarrass¬ 
ment  of  the  legal  relations  of  slavery. 

Experience  has  shown  her  that  some  of  the  noblest  of  minds 
and  hearts  are  often  thus  involved;  and  no  one  knows  better 
than  they  do  that  what  may  be  gathered  of  the  evils  of  slavery 
from  sketches  like  these  is  not  the  half  that  could  be  told  of 
the  unspeakable  whole. 

In  the  Northern  States  these  representations  may,  perhaps, 
be  thought  caricatures;  in  the  Southern  States  are  witnesses 
who  know  their  fidelity.  What  personal  knowledge  the 
author  has  had  of  the  truth  of  incidents  such  as  here  are  re¬ 
lated,  will  appear  in  its  time. 

It  is  a  comfort  to  hope,  as  so  many  of  the  world’s  sorrows 
and  wrongs  have,  from  age  to  age,  been  lived  down,  so  a  time 
shall  come  when  sketches  similar  to  these  shall  be  valuable 
only  as  memorials  of  what  has  long  ceased  to  be. 

When  an  enlightened  and  Christianized  community  shall 
have,  on  the  shores  of  Africa,  laws,  language,  and  literature 
drawn  from  among  us,  may  then  the  scenes  of  the  house  of 
bondage  be  to  them  like  the  remembrance  of  Egypt  to  the 
Israelite,— a  motive  of  thankfulness  to  Him  who  hath  re¬ 
deemed  them! 

For,  while  politicians  contend,  and  men  are  swerved  this 
way  and  that  by  conflicting  tides  of  interest  and  passion,  the 
great  cause  of  human  liberty  is  in  the  hands  of  One,  of  whom 
it  is  said: 

4‘  He  shall  not  fail  nor  be  discouraged 
Till  He  have  set  judgment  in  the  earth." 

44  He  shall  deliver  the  needy  when  he  crieth, 

The  poor,  and  him  that  hath  no  helper," 

He  shall  r^deom  thMr  sonl  from  deceit  and  violence* 

And  precious  shall  their  blood  fee  in  His  sight." 


CONTENTS. 


©HAPTEB  PA@® 

I.  In  which  the  Reader  is  Introduced  to  a  Man  of 

Humanity,  * . t 

II.  The  Mother,  ........  11 

III.  The  Husband  and  Father,  .  .  .  *14 

•  IV.  An  Evening  in  Uncle  Tom’s  Cabin,  ...  19 

V.  Showing  the  Feelings  of  Living  Property  on 

Changing  Owners,  ......  SI 

VI.  Discovery,  .........  89 

VII.  The  Mother’s  Struggle,  ......  49 

VIII.  Eliza’s  Escape,  ........  63 

IX.  In  which  it  Appears  that  a  Senator  m  but  a 

Man,  . . 77 

X.  The  Property  is  Carried  Off,  98 

XI.  In  which  Property  Gets  into  an  Improper  State 

of  Mind,  ........  108 

XII.  Select  Incidents  of  Lawful  Trade,  .  •  .117 

XIII.  The  Quaker  Settlement,  .....  184 

XIV.  Evangeline,  ........  148 

XV.  Of  Tom's  Hew  Master  and  Various  Other  Mat* 

TERS,  .........  153 

XVI.  Tom's  Mistress  and  Her  Opinions,  .  *  .189 

XVII.  The  Freeman’s  Defense,  .....  188 

XVIII.  Miss  Ophelia’s  Experiences  and  Opinions,  .  .  205 

XIX.  Miss  Ophelia’s  Experiences  and  Opinions,  Oou- 

tinned ,  .........  221 

XX.  Topsy,  ..........  241 

XXI.  Kentuck,  .........  256 

XXII  mThk  Grass  Withereth— The  Flower  Fadeth,”  261 


Vi  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTBB  PAG® 

XXIII,  Henrique, . „  *  .  268 

XXIV.  FoilESHADO'WINGS,  .......  278 

XXV.  The  Little  Evangelist, . 282 

XXVI.  Death, . 287 

XXVII.  41  This  is  the  Last  of  Earth,"  .  „  .  800 

XXVIII.  Reunion, . .  808 

XXIX.  The  Unprotected,  .  822 

XXX.  The  Slave  Warehouse, . 830 

XXXI.  The  Middle  Passage,  340 

XXXII.  Dark  Places, . 346 

XXXIII.  Gassy,  335 

XXXIV.  The  Quadroon’s  Story, . 362 

XXXV.  The  Tokens,  ........  873 

XXXVI.  Emmeline  and  Gassy,  ......  379 

XXX  VIL  Liberty,  .........  886 

SXXVIIL  The  Victory  ........  392 

XXXIX.  The  Stratagem.  .......  402 

XL.  The  Martyr,  ........  412 

XLI.  The  Young  Master,  .  .....  419 

XLIL  An  Authentic  Ghost  Story*  ....  425 

XLIII.  Results,  .........  432 

XLIV.  The  Liberator,  .»•••».  439 
XLY.  Concluding  Remarks*  •  *  «  •  •  443 


j 


UNCLE  TOM’S  CABIN; 

OB, 

LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY. 


CHAPTEE  I. 

IN  WHICH  THE  READER  IS  INTRODUCED  TO  A  MAN  01 
HUMANITY. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  of  a  chilly  day  in  February,  two 
gentlemen  were  sitting  alone  over  their  wine,  in  a  well- 
furnished  dining  parlor,  in  the  town  c  2  P — in  Kentucky. 
There  were  no  servants  present,  and  the  gentlemen,  with 
chairs  closely  approaching,  seemed  to  be  discussing  some  sub« 
ject  with  great  earnestness. 

For  convenience*  sake,  we  have  said,  hitherto,  two  gentle¬ 
men.  One  of  the  parties,  however,  when  critically  examined, 
did  not  seem,  strictly  speaking,  to  come  under  the  species. 
He  was  a  short,  thick-set  man,  with  coarse,  commonplace 
features  and  that  swaggering  air  of  pretension  which  marks  a 
low  man  who  is  trying  to  elbow  his  way  upward  in  the 
world.  He  was  much  overdressed,  in  a  gaudy  vest  of  many 
colors,  a  blue  neckerchief,  bedropped  gayly  with  yellow  spots, 
and  arranged  with  a  flaunting  tie,  quite  in  keeping  with  the 
genera]  air  of  the  man.  His  hands,  large  and  coarse,  were 
plentifully  bedecked  with  rings;  and  he  wore  a  heavy  gold 
watchchain,  with  a  bundle  of  seals  of  portentous  size,  and  a 
great  variety  of  colors,  attached  to  it— which,  in  the  ardor  of 
conversation,  he  was  in  the  habit  of  flourishing  and  jingling 
with  evident  satisfaction.  His  conversation  was  in  free  and 
easy  defiance  of  Murray's  Grammar,  and  was  garnished  at 
convenient  intervals  with  various  profane  expressions,  which 
not  even  the  desire  to  be  graphic  in  our  account  shall  induce 
m  to  transcribe. 


§  uncle  tom’s  cabin;  OB, 

His  companion,  Mr.  Shelby,  had  the  appearance  of  a  gentle¬ 
man;  and  the  arrangements  o±  the  house,  and  the  general  air 
of  the  housekeeping,  indicated  easy,  and  even  opulent,  cir¬ 
cumstances.  As  we  before  stated,  the  two  were  in  the  midst 
of  an  earnest  conversation. 

“  That  is  the  way  I  should  arrange  the  matter,”  said  Mr. 
Shelby. 

“ I  can’t  make  trade  that  way, — I  positively  can’t,  Mr. 
Shelby,”  said  the  other,  holding  up  a  glass  of  wine  between 
his  eye  and  the  light. 

“  Why,  the  fact  is,  Haley,  Tom  is  an  uncommon  fellow; 
he  is  certainly  worth  that  sum  anywhere, — steady,  honest, 
capable,  manages  my  whole  farm  like  a  clock.” 

“  You  mean  honest,  as  niggers  go,”  said  Haley,  helping 
himself  to  a  glass  of  brandy. 

“No;  I  mean,  really,  Tom  is  a  good,  steady,  sensible,  pious 
fellow.  He  got  religion  at  a  camp  meeting,  four  years  ago; 
and  I  believe  he  really  did  get  it.  I’ve  trusted  him,  since 
then,  with  everything  I  have, — money,  house,  horses, — and 
let  him  come  and  go  round  the  country;  and  I  always  found 
him  true  and  square  in  everything.” 

“  Some  folks  don’t  believe  there  is  pious  niggers,  Shelby,” 
said  Haley,  with  a  candid  flourish  of  his  hand,  “but  I  do. 
I  had  a  fellow,  now,  in  this  yer  last  lot  I  took  to  Orleans, — 
’twas  as  good  as  a  meetin’,  now,  really,  to  hear  that  critter 
pray;  and  he  was  quite  gentle  and  quiet  like.  He  fetched 
me  a  good  sum,  too,  for  I  bought  him  cheap  of  a  man  that 
was  ’bliged  to  sell  out;  so  I  realized  six  hundred  on  him, 
Yes,  I  consider  religion  a  valeyable  thing  in  a  nigger,  when 
it’s  the  genuine  article,  and  no  mistake.” 

“  Well,  Tom’s  got  the  real  article,  if  ever  a  fellow  had,” 
rejoined  the  other.  “  Why,  last  fall,  I  let  him  go  to  Cincin¬ 
nati  alone,  to  do  business  for  me,  and  bring  home  five  hun¬ 
dred  dollars.  ‘  Tom,’  says  I  to  him,  ‘  I  trust  you,  because  I 
think  you’re  a  Christian, — I  know  you  wouldn’t  cheat.’ 
Tom  comes  back,  sure  enough;  I  knew  he  would.  Some  low 
fellows,  they  say,  said  to  him,  ‘  Tom,  why  don’t  you  make 
tracks  for  Canada?  ’  ‘  Ah,  master  trusted  me,  and  I 

couldn’t,’ — they  told  me  about  it.  I  am  sorry  to  part  with 
Tom,  I  must  say.  You  ought  to  let  him  cover  the  whole 
balance  of  the  debt;  and  you  would,  Haley,  if  you  had  any 
conscience.” 

“  Well.  >e  got  just  as  much  conscience  as  any  man  ia 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY.  It 

business  can  afford  to  keep, — just  a  little,  you  know,  to  swear 
bj,  as  'twere,”  said  the  trader  jocularly;  “  and,  then,  I'm 
ready  to  do  anything  in  reason  to  'bilge  friends;  but  this  yer, 
you  see,  is  a  leetle  too  hard  on  a  fellow, — a  leetle  too  hard.” 
The  trader  sighed  contemplatively,  and  poured  out  some 
more  brandy. 

“  Well,  then,  Haley,  how  will  you  trade?  ”  said  Mr.  Shelby, 
after  an  uneasy  interval  of  silence. 

“  Well,  haven't  you  a  boy  or  gal  that  you  could  throw 
in  with  Tom?” 

“Hum— none  that  I  could  well  spare;  to  tell  the  truth, 
it's  only  hard  necessity  makes  me  willing  to  sell  at  all.  I 
don't  like  parting  with  any  of  my  hands,  that's  a  fact.” 

Here  the  door  opened,  and  a  small  quadroon  boy,  between 
four  and  five  years  of  age,  entered  the  room.  There  was 
something  in  his  appearance  remarkably  beautiful  and  en¬ 
gaging.  His  black  hair,  fine  as  floss  silk,  hung  in  glossy 
curls  about  his  round  dimpled  face,  while  a  pair  of  large  dark 
eyes,  full  of  fire  and  softness,  looked  out  from  beneath  the 
rich,  long  lashes,  as  he  peered  curiously  into  the  apartment. 
A  gay  robe  of  scarlet  and  yellow  plaid,  carefully  made  and 
neatly  fitted,  set  off  to  advantage  the  dark  and  rich  style  of 
his  beauty;  and  a  certain  comic  air  of  assurance,  blended  with 
bashfulness,  showed  that  he  had  been  not  unused  to  being 
petted  and  noticed  by  his  master. 

“  Hullo,  Jim  Crow!  ”  said  Mr.  Shelby,  whistling,  and  snap¬ 
ping  a  bunch  of  raisins  toward  him,  “  pick  that  up  now!  ” 

The  child  scampered,  with  all  his  little  strength,  after  the 
prize,  while  his  master  laughed. 

“  Come  here,  Jim  Crow,”  said  he.  The  child  came  up, 
and  the  master  patted  the  curly  head,  and  chucked  him  under 
the  chin. 

“  Now,  Jim,  show  this  gentleman  how  you  can  dance  and 
sing.”  The  boy  commenced  one  of  those  wild,  grotesque 
songs  common  among  the  negroes,  in  a  rich,  clear  voice, 
accompanying  his  singing  with  many  evolutions  of  the  hands, 
feet,  and  whole  body,  all  in  perfect  time  to  the  music. 

w Bravo!”  said  Haley,  throwing  him  a  quarter  of  an 
orange. 

“  Row,  Jim,  walk  like  old  Unde  Cudjoe  when  he  has  the 
rheumatism,”  said  his  master. 

Instantly  the  flexible  limbs  of  the  child  assumed  the  ap- 
l  "nee  of  deformity  and  distortion,  as*  with  his  baofe 


4 


UM)LB  tom’s  cabin  ;  OB, 

humped  up,  and  his  master's  stick  in  his  hand,  he  hobbled 
about  the  room,  his  childish  face  drawn  into  a  doleful  pucker, 
and  spitting  from  right  to  left,  in  imitation  of  an  old  man. 

Both  gentlemen  laughed  uproariously. 

“  Now,  Jim,”  said  his  master,  “  show  us  how  old  elder 
Bobbins  leads  the  psalm.”  The  boy  drew  his  chubby  face 
down  to  a  formidable  length,  and  commenced  toning  a  psalm 
tune  through  his  nose  with  imperturbable  gravity. 

“  Hurrah!  bravo!  what  a  young  un!  ”  said  Haley;  “that 
chap’s  a  case.  I’ll  promise.  Tell  you  what,”  said  he,  sud¬ 
denly  slapping  his  hand  on  Mr.  Shelby’s  shoulder,  “  fling  in 
that  chap  and  I’ll  settle  the  business,— I  will.  Come,  now, 
if  that  an’t  doing  the  thing  up  about  the  Tightest!  ” 

At  this  moment,  the  door  was  pushed  gently  open,  and  a 
young  quadroon  woman,  apparently  about  twenty-five, 
entered  the  room. 

There  needed  only  a  glance  from  the  child  to  her,  to 
identify  her  as  its  mother.  There  was  the  same  rich,  full, 
dark  eye,  with  its  long  lashes;  the  same  ripples  of  silky  black 
hair.  The  brown  of  her  complexion  gave  way  on  the  cheek 
to  a  perceptible  flush,  which  deepened  as  she  saw  the  gaze 
of  the  strange  man  fixed  upon  her  in  bold  and  undisguised 
admiration.  Her  dress  was  of  the  neatest  possible  fit,  and 
set  off  to  advantage  her  finely  molded  shape;  a  delicately 
formed  hand  and  a  trim  foot  and  ankle  were  items  of  ap¬ 
pearance  that  did  not  escape  the  quick  eye  of  the  trader,  well 
used  to  run  up  at  a  glance  the  points  of  a  fine  female  article. 

“  Well,  Eliza?  ”  said  her  master,  as  she  stopped  and  looked 
hesitatingly  at  him. 

“  I  was  looking  for  Harry,  please,  sir;”  and  the  boy 
bounded  toward  her,  showing  his  spoils,  which  he  had 
gathered  in  the  skirt  of  his  robe. 

“  Well,  take  him  away,  then,”  said  Mr.  Shelby;  and  hastily 
she  withdrew,  carrying  the  child  on  her  arm. 

“  By  Jupiter!  ”  said  the  trader,  turning  to  him  in  admira- 
tion,  “  there’s  an  article,  now!  You  might  make  your  for-* 
tune  on  that  ar  gal  in  Orleans,  any  day.  I’ve  seen  over  a 
thousand,  in  my  day,  paid  down  for  gals  not  a  bit  handsomer.*1 

“  I  don’t  want  to  make  my  fortune  on  her,”  said  Mr. 
Shelby  dryly;  and.  seeking  to  turn  the  conversation,  he  un¬ 
corked  a  bottle  of  fresh  wine,  and  asked  his  companion^ 
opinion  of  it. 

“Capita^  sir;— first  chop!  ”  said  the  trader;  then  turning, 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY 


5 


and  slapping  his  hand  familiarly  on  Shelby*s  shoulder,  he 
added: 

“  Come,  how  will  you  trade  about  the  gal?— what  shall  I 
say  for  her, — what  *11  you  take?** 

“Mr.  Haley,  she  is  not  to  be  sold,**  said  Shelby.  “My 
wife  would  not  part  with  her  for  her  weight  in  gold.** 

“Ay,  ay!  women  always  say  such  things,  *cause  they  han*t 
no  sort  of  calculation.  Just  show  *em  how  many  watches, 
feathers,  and  trinkets  one*s  weight  in  gold  would  buy,  and 
that  alters  the  case,  I  reckon.** 

“  I  tell  you,  Haley,  this  must  not  be  spoken  of;  I  say  no, 
and  I  mean  no,**  said  Shelby  decidedly. 

“  Well,  you*ll  let  me  have  the  boy,  though,**  said  the  trader; 
“  you  must  own  X*ve  come  down  pretty  handsomely  for  him.** 
“What  on  earth  can  you  want  with  the  child?**  said 
Shelby. 

“  Why,  I*ve  got  a  friend  that*s  going  into  this  yer  branch  of 
the  business,— wants  to  buy  up  handsome  boys  to  raise  for 
the  market.  Fancy  articles  entirely, — sell  for  waiters,  and 
so  on,  to  rich  uns,  that  can  pay  for  handsome  uns.  It  sets 
off  one  of  yer  great  places,— a  real  handsome  boy  to  open 
door,  wait,  and  tend.  They  fetch  a  good  sum;  and  this  little 
devil  is  such  a  comical,  musical  concern,  he*s  just  the  article.** 
“  I  would  rather  not  sell  him,**  said  Mr.  Shelby  thought¬ 
fully;  “the  fact  is,  sir,  I*m  a  humane  man,  and  I  hate  to 
take  the  boy  from  his  mother,  sir.** 

“Oh,  you  do?  La!— yes,  something  of  that  ar  natur.  I 
understand,  perfectly.  It  is  mighty  onpleasant  getting  on 
with  women,  sometimes.  I  al*ays  hates  these  yer  screechin*, 
scrcamin*  times.  They  are  mighty  onpleasant;  but,  as  I 
manage  business,  I  generally  avoids  *em,  sir.  How,  what  if 
you  get  the  girl  off  for  a  day,  or  a  week,  or  so;  then  the  thing*s 
done  quietly,— all  over  before  she  comes  home.  Your  wife 
might  get  her  some  earrings,  or  a  new  gown,  or  some  such 
truck,  to  make  up  with  her.** 

“  I*m  afraid  not.** 

“  Lor  bless  ye,  yes!  These  critters  an*t  like  white  folks,  yon 
know;  they  gets  over  things,  only  manage  right.  How,  they 
say,**  said  Haley,  assuming  a  candid  and  confidential  air* 
“  that  this  kind  o*  trade  is  hardening  to  the  feelings;  but  I 
never  found  it  so.  Fact  is,  I  never  could  do  things  up  the 
way  some  fellers  manage  the  business.  I*ve  seen  'em  as  would 
pull  a  woman’s  child  out  of  her  arms*  and  set  him  up  to  sell4 


6 


UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN;  OB, 

and  she  sereeehin*  like  mad  all  the  time;— very  bad  policy, 
—damages  the  article,— makes  ’em  quite  unlit  for  service 
sometimes.  I  knew  a  real  handsome  gal  once,  in  Orleans, 
as  was  entirely  ruined  by  this  sort  o’  handling.  The  fellow 
that  was  trading  for  her  didn’t  want  her  baby;  and  she  was 
one  of  your  real  high  sort,  when  her  blood  was  up.  I  tell 
you,  she  squeezed  up  her  child  in  her  arms,  and  talked,  and 
went  on  real  awful.  It  kinder  makes  my  blood  run  cold 
to  think  on’t,  and  when  they  carried  off  the  child,  and 
locked  her  up,  she  jest  went  ravin’  mad,  and  died  in  a  week. 
Clear  waste,  sir,  of  a  thousand  dollars,  jest  for  want  of  man¬ 
agement, — there’s  where  ’tis.  It’s  always  best  to  do  the 
humane  thing,  sir;  that’s  been  my  experience.”  And  the 
trader  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  and  folded  his  arms  with  an 
air  of  virtuous  decision,  apparently  considering  himself  a 
second  Wilberforce. 

The  subject  appeared  to  interest  the  gentleman  deeply;  for 
while  Mr.  Shelby  was  thoughtfully  peeling  an  orange,  Haley 
broke  out  afresh,  with  becoming  diffidence,  but  as  if  actually 
driven  by  the  force  of  truth  to  say  a  few  words  more. 

“  It  don’t  look  well,  now,  for  a  feller  to  be  praisin’  him¬ 
self;  but  I  say  it  jest  because  it’s  the  truth.  I  believe  I’m 
reckoned  to  bring  in  about  the  finest  droves  of  niggers  that 
is  brought  in,— at  least,  I’ve  been  told  so;  if  I  have  once,  I 
reckon  I  have  a  hundred  times,  all  in  good  case,— fat  and 
likely,  and  I  lose  as  few  as  any  man  in  the  business.  And  I 
lays  it  all  to  my  management,  sir;  and  humanity,  sir,  I  may 
say,  is  the  great  pillar  of  my  management.” 

Mr.  Shelby  did  not  know  what  to  say,  and  so  he  said 
“Indeed!” 

“  Now,  I’ve  been  laughed  at  for  my  notions,  sir,  and  I’ve 
been  talked  to.  They  an’t  pop’lar,  and  they  an’t  common; 
but  I’ve  stuck  to  ’em,  sir;  I’ve  stuck  to  ’em  and  realized  welt 
on  ’em;  yes,  sir,  they  have  paid  their  passage,  I  may  say,” 
and  the  trader  laughed  at  his  joke. 

There  was  something  so  piquant  and  original  in  these 
elucidations  of  humanity  that  Mr.  Shelby  could  not  help 
laughing  in  company.  Perhaps  you  laugh,  too,  dear  reader; 
but  you  know  humanity  comes  ont  in  a  variety  of  strange 
forms  nowadays,  and  there  is  no  end  to  the  odd  things  that 
humane  people  will  say  and  do. 

Mr.  Shelby’s  laugh  encouraged  the  trader  to  proceed. 

“  It’s  strange  now,  but  I  never  could  beat  this  into  peopled 


LIFB  AMONG  TUB  LOWLY* 


1 

heads.  Now,  there  was  Tom  Loker,  my  old  partner,  down  in 
Natchez;  he  was  a  clever  fellow,  Tom  was,  only  the  very  devil 
with  niggers,— on  principle  'twas,  you  see,  for  a  better-hearted 
feller  never  broke  bread;  'twas  his  system ,  sir.  I  used  to  talk 
to  Tom.  4  Why,  Tom/  I  used  to  say,  4  when  your  gals  take 
on  and  cry,  what's  the  use  o'  crackin'  on  'em  over  the  head, 
and  knockin'  on  'em  round?  It's  ridiculous,'  says  I,  4  and 
don't  do  no  sort  o'  good.  Why,  I  don't  see  no  harm  in  their 
cry  in','  says  1;  4  it's  natur,'  says  I,  4  and  if  natur  can't  blow 
off  one  way,  it  will  another.  Besides,  Tom,'  says  I,  4  it  jest 
spiles  your  gals;  they  get  sickly  and  down  in  the  mouth;  and 
sometimes  they  gets  ugly, — particularly  yallow  gals  do,— and 
it's  the  devil  and  all  gettin'  on  'em  broke  in.  Now,'  says  I, 
4  why  can't  you  kinder  coax  'em  up,  and  speak  'em  fair?  De- 

Eend  on  it,  Tom,  a  little  humanity,  thrown  in  along,  goes  a 
eap  further  than  all  your  jawin'  and  crackin';  and  it  pays 
better,'  says  I,  4  depend  on't.'  But  Tom  couldn't  get  the 
hang  on't;  and  he  spiled  so  many  for  me  that  I  had  to  break 
off  with  him,  though  he  was  a  good-hearted  fellow,  and  as 
fair  a  business  hand  as  is  goin'." 

44  And  do  you  find  your  ways  of  mar  aging  do  the  business 
better  than  Tom's?  "  said  Mr.  Shelby. 

44  Why,  yes,  sir,  I  may  say  so.  You  see,  when  I  anyways 
can,  I  takes  a  leetle  care  about  the  onpleasant  parts,  like  sell¬ 
ing  young  uns  and  that, — get  the  gals  out  of  the  way  -out  of 
sight,  out  of  mind,  you  know, — and  when  it's  clean  done, 
and  can't  be  helped,  they  naturally  get  used  to  it.  'Tan't, 
you  know,  as  if  it  was  white  folks,  that's  brought  up  in  the 
way  of  'speetin'  to  keep  their  children  and  wives,  and  all  that. 
Niggers,  you  know,  that's  fetched  up  properly,  han't  no  kind 
of  Ypectations  of  no  kind;  so  all  these  things  comes  easier." 

44  I'm  afraid  mine  are  not  properly  brought  up,  then,"  said 
Mr.  Shelby. 

44  S'posew  not;  you  Kentucky  folks  spile  your  niggers.  You 
mean  well  by  'em,  but  'tan't  no  real  kindness,  arter  all.  Now, 
a  nigger,  you  see,  what's  got  to  be  hacked  and  tumbled  round 
the  world,  and  sold  to  Tom,  and  Dick,  and  the  Lord  knows 
who,  'tan't  no  kindness  to  be  givin'  on  him  notions  and  ex«* 
peetations,  and  bringin'  on  him  up  too  well,  for  the  rough 
and  tumble  comes  all  the  harder  on  h  m  arter.  Now,  I 
venture  to  say.  your  niggers  wouid  he  quite  chop-fallen  in  a 
place  where  some  of  your  plantation  niggers  would  he  sing¬ 
ing  and  whooping  like  all  possessed.  Every  man,  you  know* 


i 


UNCL3  tom’s  cabin;  OB, 

Mr.  Shelby,  naturally  thinks  well  of  his  own  ways;  and  I 
think  I  treat  niggers  just  about  as  well  as  it’s  ever  worth 
while  to  treat  ’em.” 

“  It’s  a  happy  thing  to  be  satisfied,”  said  Mr.  Shelby  with 
a  slight  shrug,  and  some  perceptible  feelings  of  a  disagree¬ 
able  nature. 

“Well,”  said  Haley,  after  they  had  both  silently  picked 
their  nuts  for  a  season,  “  what  do  you  say?  ” 

“  I’ll  think  the  matter  over,  and  talk  with  my  wife,”  said 
Mr.  Shelby.  “  Meantime,  Haley,  if  you  want  the  matter 
carried  on  in  the  quiet  way  you  speak  of,  you’d  best  not  let 
your  business  in  this  neighborhood  be  known.  It  will  get 
out  among  my  boys,  and  it  will  not  be  a  particularly  quiet 
business  getting  away  any  of  my  fellows,  if  they  know  it.  I’ll 
promise  you.” 

“  Oh,  certainly,  by  all  means,  mum!  of  course.  But  I’ll 
tell  you,  I’m  in  a  devil  of  a  hurry,  and  shall  want  to  know, 
as  soon  as  possible,  what  I  may  depend  on,”  said  he,  rising 
and  putting  on  his  overcoat. 

“  Well,  call  up  this  evening,  between  six  and  seven,  and  you 
shall  have  my  answer,”  said  Mr.  Shelby,  and  the  trader  bowed 
himself  out  of  the  apartment. 

“  I’d  like  to  have  been  able  to  kick  the  fellow  down  the 
steps,”  said  he  to  himself,  as  he  saw  the  door  fairly  closed, 
“  with  his  impudent  assurance;  but  he  knows  how  much  he 
has  me  at  advantage.  If  anybody  had  ever  said  to  me  that  I 
should  sell  Tom  down  South  to  one  of  those  rascally  traders, 
I  should  have  said,  ‘  Is  thy  servant  a  dog,  that  he  should  do 
this  thing?  ’  And  now  it  must  come,  for  aught  I  see.  And 
Eliza’s  child,  too!  I  know  that  I  shall  have  some  fuss  with 
my  wife  about  that;  and,  for  that  matter,  about  Tom,  too. 
So  much  for  being  in  debt,— heigh-ho!  The  fellow  sees  his 
advantage,  and  means  to  push  it.” 

Perhaps  the  mildest  form  of  the  system  of  slavery  is  to  be 
seen  in  the  State  of  Kentucky.  The  general  prevalence  of 
agricultural  pursuits  of  a  quiet  and  gradual  nature,  not  re¬ 
quiring  those  periodic  seasons  of  hurry  and  pressure  that 
are  called  for  in  the  business  of  more  southern  districts, 
makes  the  task  of  the  negro  a  more  healthful  and  reasonable 
one;  while  the  master,  content  with  a  more  gradual  style  of 
acquisition,  has  not  those  temptations  to  hard-hen rtedness 
which  always  overcome  frail  human  nature  when  the  pros¬ 
pect  of  sudden  and  rapid  gain  is  weighed  in  the  balance*  with 


9 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY. 

no  heavier  counterpoise  than  the  interests  of  the  helpless  and 

unprotected. 

Whoever  visits  some  estates  there,  and  witnesses  the  good- 
humored  indulgence  of  some  masters  and  mistresses,  and  the 
affectionate  loyalty  of  some  slaves,  might  be  tempted  to 
dream  the  oft-fabled  poetic  legend  of  a  patriarchal  institu¬ 
tion,  and  all  that;  but  over  and  above  the  scene  there  broods 
a  portentous  shadow — the  shadow  of  law .  So  long  as  the 
law  considers  all  these  human  beings,  with  beating  hearts  and 
living  affections,  only  as  so  many  things  belonging  to  a  mas¬ 
ter;  so  long  as  the  failure,  or  misfortune,  or  imprudence,  or 
death  of  the  kindest  owner  may  cause  them  any  day  to  ex¬ 
change  a  life  of  kind  protection  and  indulgence  for  one  of 
hopeless  misery  and  toil, — so  long  it  is  impossible  to  make 
anything  beautiful  or  desirable  in  the  best-regulated  adminis¬ 
tration  of  slavery. 

Mr.  Shelby  was  a  fair  average  kind  of  man,  good-natured 
and  kindly,  and  disposed  to  easy  indulgence  of  those  around 
him,  and  there  had  never  been  a  lack  of  anything  which 
might  contribute  to  the  physical  comfort  of  the  negroes  on 
his  estate.  He  had,  however,  speculated  largely  and  quite 
loosely;  had  involved  himself  deeply,  and  his  notes  to  a  large 
amount  had  come  into  the  hands  of  Haley;  and  this  small 
piece  of  information  is  the  key  to  the  preceding  conversation. 

Now,  it  had  so  happened  that,  in  approaching  the  door, 
Eliza  had  caught  enough  of  the  conversation  to  know  that  a 
trader  was  maldng  offers  to  her  master  for  somebody.  She 
would  gladly  have  stopped  at  the  door  to  listen,  as  she  came 
out;  but  her  mistress  just  then  calling,  she  was  obliged  to 
hasten  away.  Still  she  thought  she  heard  the  trader  make 
an  offer  for  her  boy;— could  she  be  mistaken?  Her  heart 
swelled  and  throbbed,  and  she  involuntarily  strained  him 
so  tight  that  the  little  fellow  looked  up  into  her  face  in 
astonishment. 

“  Eliza,  girl,  what  ails  you  to-day?  ”  said  her  mistress, 
when  Eliza  had  upset  the  wash-pitcher,  knocked  down  the 
work-stand,  and  finally  was  abstractedly  offering  her  mistress 
a  long  nightgown  in  place  of  the  silk  dress  she  had  ordered 
her  to  bring  from  the  wardrobe. 

Eliza  started.  “  Oh,  missis!  ”  she  said,  raising  her  eyes; 
then,  bursting  into  tears,  she  sat  down  in  a  chair,  and  began 
sobbing. 

“  Why,  Eliza,  child!  what  ails  you?  ”  said  her  mistress. 


10 


uncle  tom’s  cabin;  OB, 

“  Oh,  missis/’  said  Eliza,  “  there’s  been  a  trader  talking 
with  master  in  the  parlor!  I  heard  him.” 

“  Well,  silly  child,  suppose  there  was?  ” 

“  Oh,  missis,  do  you  suppose  mas’r  would  sell  my  Harry?” 
And  the  poor  creature  threw  herself  into  a  chair,  and  sobbed 
convulsively. 

“  Sell  him!  No,  you  foolish  girl!  You  know  your  master 
never  deals  with  those  Southern  traders,  and  never  means  to 
sell  any  of  his  servants,  as  long  as  they  behave  well.  Why, 
you  silly  child,  who  do  you  think  would  want  to  buy  vour 
Harry?  Do  you  think  all  the  world  are  set  on  him  as  you 
are,  you  goosie?  Come,  cheer  up,  and  hook  my  dress. 
There,  now,  put  my  back  hair  up  in  that  pretty  braid  you 
learnt  the  other  day,  and  don’t  go  listening  at  doors  any 
more.” 

“  Well,  but,  missis,  you  never  would  give  vour  consent— 
to— to— ” 

“Nonsense,  child!  to  be  sure  I  shouldn’t.  What  do  you 
talk  so  for?  I  would  as  soon  have  one  of  my  own  children 
sold.  But  really,  Eliza,  you  are  getting  altogether  too  proud 
of  that  little  fellow.  A  man  can’t  put  his  nose  into  the  door, 
but  you  think  he  must  be  coming  to  buy  him.” 

Reassured  by  her  mistress’  confident  tone,  Eliza  proceeded 
nimbly  and  adroitly  with  her  toilet,  laughing  at  her  own  fears 
as  she  proceeded. 

Mrs.  Shelby  was  a  woman  of  a  high  class,  both  intellectually 
and  morally.  To  that  natural  magnanimity  and  generosity 
of  mind  which  one  often  marks  as  characteristic  of  the  women 
of  Kentucky,  she  added  high  moral  and  religious  sensibility 
and  principle,  carried  out  with  great  energy  and  ability  into 
practical  results.  Her  husband,  who  made  no  professions  to 
piy  particular  religious  character,  nevertheless  reverenced  and 
respected  the  consistency  of  hers,  and  stood,  perhaps,  a  little 
in  awe  of  her  opinion.  Certain  it  was  that  he  gave  her  un¬ 
limited  scope  in  all  her  benevolent  efforts  for  the  comfort, 
instruction,  and  improvement  ei  lie:  servants,  though  he 
never  took  any  decided  part  in  them  mmself.  In  fact,  if  not 
exactly  a  believer  in  the  doctrine  of  the  efficacy  of  the  extra 
good  works  of  saints,  he  really  seemed  somehow  or  other  to 
fancy  that  his  wife  had  piety  and  benevolence  enough  for 
two,— to  indulge  a  shadowy  expectation  of  getting  into 
heaven  through  her  superabundance  of  qualities  to  which  he 
made  no  particular  pretension. 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY. 


11 


The  heaviest  load  on  Ms  mind,  after  his  conversation  with 
ihe  trader,  lay  in  the  foreseen  necessity  of  breaking  to  his  wife 
the  arrangement  contemplated,  meeting  the  importunities  and 
opposition  which  he  knew  he  should  have  reason  to  encounter. 

Mrs.  Shelby,  being  entirely  ignorant  of  her  husband’s  em¬ 
barrassments,  and  knowing  only  the  general  kindliness  of  his 
temper,  had  been  quite  sincere  in  the  entire  incredulity  with 
which  she  had  met  Eliza’s  suspicions.  In  fact,  she  dismissed 
the  matter  from  her  mind,  without  a  second  thought;  and 
being  occupied  in  preparations  for  an  evening  visit,  it  passed 
out  of  her  thoughts  entirely. 

CHAPTER  II 

THE  MOTHER. 

Eliza  had  been  brought  up  by  her  mistress,  from  girlhood, 
as  a  petted  and  indulged  favorite. 

The  traveler  in  the  South  must  cften  have  remarked  that 
peculiar  air  of  refinement,  that  softness  of  voice  and  manner, 
which  seems  in  many  cases  to  be  a  particular  gift  to  the  quad¬ 
roon  and  mulatto  woman.  These  natural  graces  in  the 
quadroon  are  often  united  with  beauty  of  the  most  dazzling 
kind,  and  in  almost  every  case  with  a  personal  appearance 
prepossessing  and  agreeable.  Eliza,  such  as  we  have  de¬ 
scribed  her,  is  not  a  fancy  sketch,  but  taken  from  remem¬ 
brance,  as  we  saw  her,  years  ago,  in  Kentucky.  Safe  under 
the  protecting  care  of  her  mistress,  Eliza  had  reached  ma¬ 
turity  without  those  temptations  which  make  beauty  so  fatal 
an  inheritance  to  a  slave.  She  had  been  married  to  a  bright 
and  talented  young  mulatto  man,  who  was  a  slave  on  a  neigh¬ 
boring  estate,  and  bore  the  name  of  George  Harris. 

This  young  man  had  been  hired  out  bv  his  master  to  work 
in  a  bagging  factory,  where  his  adroitness  and  ingenuity 
caused  him  to  be  considered  the  first  hand  in  the  place.  He 
had  invented  a  machine  for  the  cleaning  of  the  hemp,  which, 
considering  the  education  and  circumstances  of  the  inventor, 
displayed  quite  as  much  mechanical  genius  as  Whitney’s 
cotton-gin.* 

He  was  possessed  of  a  handsome  person  and  pleasing  man- 

*  A  machine  of  this  description  was  really  the  invention  of  a  jotmg 
.Colored  man  in  Kentucky. 


19  uncle  tom’s  cabin;  or, 

ners,  and  was  a  general  favorite  in  the  factory.  Nevertheless* 
as  this  young  man  was  in  the  eye  of  the  law  not  a  man,  but  a 
thing,  all  these  superior  qualifications  were  subject  to  the  con¬ 
trol  of  a  vulgar,  narrow-minded,  tyrannical  master  This 
same  gentleman,  having  heard  of  the  fame  of  George’s  inven¬ 
tion,  took  a  ride  over  to  the  factory,  to  see  what  this  intelli¬ 
gent  chattel  had  been  about.  He  was  received  with  great 
enthusiasm  by  the  employer,  who  congratulated  him  on  pos¬ 
sessing  so  valuable  a  slave. 

He  was  waited  upon  over  the  factory,  shown  the  machinery 
by  George,  who,  in  high  spirits,  talked  so  fluently,  held  him¬ 
self  so  erect,  looked  so  handsome  and  manly,  that  his  master 
began  to  feel  an  uneasy  consciousness  of  inferiority.  What 
business  had  his  slave  to  be  marching  around  the  country, 
inventing  machines,  and  holding  up  his  head  among  gentle¬ 
men?  He’d  soon  put  a  stop  to  it.  He’d  take  him  back,  and 
put  him  to  hoeing  and  digging,  and  “  see  if  he’d  step  about  so 
smart.”  Accordingly,  the  manufacturer  and  all  hands  con¬ 
cerned  were  astounded  when  he  suddenly  demanded  George’s 
wages,  and  announced  his  intention  of  taking  him  home. 

“  But,  Mr.  Harris,”  remonstrated  the  manufacturer,  “  isn’t 
this  rather  sudden?  ” 

What  if  it  is?— isn’t  the  man  mine?  ” 

u  W e  would  he  willing,  sir,  to  increase  the  rate  of  compen¬ 
sation.” 

“No  object  at  all,  sir.  I  don’t  need  to  hire  any  of  my 
hands  out,  unless  I’ve  a  mind  to.” 

“  But,  sir,  he  seems  peculiarly  adapted  to  this  business.” 

“  Dare  say  he  may  be;  never  was  much  adapted  to  anything 
that  I  set  him  about,  I’ll  be  bound.” 

“  But  only  think  of  his  inventing  this  machine,”  interposed 
one  of  the  workmen,  rather  unluckily. 

“  Oh,  yes!— a  machine  for  saving  work,  is  it?  He’d  invent 
that,  I’ll  be  bound;  let  a  nigger  alone  for  that,  any  time. 
They  are  all  labor-saving  machines  themselves,  every  one  of 
’em.  No,  he  shall  tramp!  ” 

George  had  stood  like  one  transfixed,  at  hearing  his  doom 
thus  suddenly  pronounced  by  a  power  that  he  knew  was  irre¬ 
sistible.  He  folded  his  arms,  tightly  pressed  in  his  lips,  but 
a  whole  volcano  of  bitter  feelings  burned  in  his  bosom,  and 
sent  streams  of  fire  through  his  veins.  He  breathed  short, 
and  his  large  dark  eyes  flashed  like  live  coals;  and  he  might 
have  broken  out  into  some  dangerous  ebullition,  had  not  the 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY. 


IS 


kindly  manufacturer  touched  him  on  the  arm*  and  said  in  a 
low  tone: 

^  Give  way,  George;  go  with  him  for  the  present.  We’ll 
try  to  get  you,  yet.” 

The  tyrant  observed  the  whisper,  and  conjectured  its  im¬ 
port,  though  he  could  not  hear  what  was  said;  and  he  in¬ 
wardly  strengthened  himself  in  his  determination  to  keep  the 
power  he  possessed  over  his  victim. 

George  was  taken  home,  and  put  to  the  meanest  drudgery 
of  the  farm.  He  had  been  able  to  repress  every  disrespectful 
word;  but  the  flashing  eye,  the  gloomy  and  troubled  brow, 
were  part  of  a  natural  language  that  could  not  be  repressed— 
indubitable  signs,  which  showed  too  plainly  that  the  man 
could  not  become  a  thing. 

It  was  during  the  happy  period  of  his  employment  in  the 
factory  that  George  had  seen  and  married  his  wife.  During 
that  period, — being  much  trusted  and  favored  by  his  em¬ 
ployer, — he  had  free  liberty  to  come  and  go  at  discretion. 
The  marriage  was  highly  approved  of  by  Mrs.  Shelby,  who, 
with  a  little  womanly  complacency  in  match-making,  felt 
pleased  to  unite  her  handsome  favorite  with  one  of  her  own 
class  who  seemed  in  every  way  suited  to  her;  and  so  they  were 
married  in  her  mistress’  great  parlor,  and  her  mistress  herself 
adorned  the  bride’s  beautiful  hair  with  orange-blossoms,  and 
threw  over  it  the  bridal  veil,  which  certainly  could  scarce  have 
rested  on  a  fairer  head;  and  there  was  no  lack  of  white  gloves, 
and  cake  gnd  wine,*— of  admiring  guests  to  praise  the  bride’s 
beauty  and  her  mistress’  indulgence  and  liberality.  For  a 
year  or  two  Eliza  saw  her  husband  frequently,  and  there  was 
nothing  to  interrupt  their  happiness,  except  the  loss  of  two 
infant  children,  to  whom  she  was  passionately  attached,  and 
whom  she  mourned  with  a  grief  so  intense  as  to  call  for  gentle 
remonstrance  from  her  mistress,  who  sought,  with  maternal 
anxiety,  to  direct  her  naturally  passionate  feelings  within  the 
bounds  of  reason  and  religion. 

After  the  birth  of  little  Harry,  however,  she  had  gradually 
become  tranquillized  and  settled;  and  every  bleeding  tie  and 
throbbing  nerve,  once  more  entwined  with  that  little  life, 
6eemed  to  become  sound  and  healthful,  and  Eliza  was  a  happy 
woman  up  to  the  time  that  her  husband  was  rudely  tom  from 
his  kind  employer  and  brought  under  the  iron  sway  of  his 
legal  owner. 

The  manufacturer,  true  to  his  word,  visited  Mr.  Harris  a 


14  uncle  tom’s  cabin;  OB* 

week  or  two  after  George  had  been  taken  away,  when,  as  h® 
hoped,  the  heat  of  the  occasion  had  passed  away,  and  tried 
every  possible  inducement  to  lead  him  to  restore  him  to  his 
former  employment. 

“  You  needn't  trouble  yourself  to  talk  any  longer,”  said  he 
doggedly.  “  I  know  my  own  business,  sir.” 

“  I  did  not  presume  to  interfere  with  it,  sir.  I  only 
thought  that  you  might  think  it  for  your  interest  to  let  your 
man  to  us  on  the  terms  proposed.” 

“  Oh,  I  understand  the  matter  well  enough.  I  saw  your 
winking  and  whispering,  the  day  I  took  him  out  of  the  fac¬ 
tory;  but  you  don't  come  it  over  me  that  way.  It's  a  free 
country,  sir;  the  man's  mine ,  and  I  do  what  I  please  with 
him, — that's  it!  ” 

And  so  fell  George's  last  hope;— nothing  before  him  but  a 
life  of  toil  and  drudgery,  rendered  more  bitter  by  every  little 
smarting  vexation  and  indignity  which  tyrannical  ingenuity 
could  devise. 

A  very  handsome  jurist  once  said,  “  The  worst  use  you  can 
put  a  man  to  is  to  hang  him.”  No;  there  is  another  use  that 
a  man  can  be  put  to  that  is  worse! 


CHAPTEB  III 

THE  HUSBAND  AND  FATHER. 

Mrs.  Shelby  had  gone  on  her  visit,  and  Eliza  stood  in  the 
veranda,  rather  dejectedly  looking  after  the  retreating  car¬ 
riage,  when  a  hand  was  laid  on  her  shoulder.  She  turned, 
and  a  bright  smile  lighted  up  her  fine  eyes. 

“George,  is  it  you?  How  you  frightened  me!  Well!  I 
am  so  glad  you  's  come!  Missis  is  gone  to  spend  the  after¬ 
noon;  so  come  into  my  little  room,  and  we'll  have  the  time  all 
to  ourselves.” 

Saying  this,  she  drew  him  into  a  neat  little  apartment  open¬ 
ing  on  the  veranda,  where  she  generally  sat  at  her  sewing, 
within  call  of  her  mistress. 

“  How  glad  I  am!— why  don't  you  smile? — and  look  at 
Harry, — how  he  grows.”  The  boy  stood  shyly  regarding  his 
father  through  his  curls,  holding  elo^e  to  the  skirts  of  his 
mother's  dress.  “Isn't  he  beautiful?”  said  Eliza,  lifting 
his  long  curls  and  kissing  him. 


UFEE  AMONG  THE  L0WL¥.  IS 

“  I  wish  he’d  never  been  bom!  ”  said  George  bitterly.  *  I 
wish  I’d  never  been  born  myself! ” 

Surprised  and  frightened,  Eliza  sat  down,  leaned  her  head 
on  her  husband’s  shoulder,  and  burst  into  tears. 

“  There  now,  Eliza,  it’s  too  bad  for  me  to  make  you  feel  so, 
poor  girl! 99  said  he  fondly;  “  it’s  too  bad!  Oh,  how  I  wish 
you  never  had  seen  me,— you  might  have  been  happy! 99 

“George!  George!  how  can  you  talk  so?  Wh:;„t  dreadful 
thing  has  happened,  or  is  going  to  happen?  I’m  sure  we’ve 
been  very  happy,  till  lately.” 

“  So  we  have,  dear,”  said  George.  Then  drawing  his  child 
on  his  knee,  he  gazed  intently  on  his  glorious  dark  eyes,  and 
passed  his  hands  through  his  long  curls. 

“  Just  like  you,  Eliza;  and  you  are  the  handsomest  woman 
I  ever  saw,  and  the  best  one  I  ever  wish  to  see;  but,  oh,  I  wish 
I’d  never  seen  you,  nor  you  me! 99 

“  Oh,  George;  how  can  you!  ” 

“Yes,  Eliza;  it’s  all  misery,  misery,  misery!  My  life  is 
bitter  as  wormwood;  the  very  life  is  burning  out  of  me.  I’m 
a  poor,  miserable,  forlorn  drudge;  I  shall  only  drag  you  down 
with  me,  that’s  all.  What’s  the  use  of  our  trying  to  do  any* 
thing?  trying  to  know  anything,  trying  to  be  anything? 
What’s  the  use  of  living?  I  wish  I  was  dead!  ” 

“  Oh,  now,  dear  George,  that  is  really  wicked!  I  know 
how  you  feel  about  losing  your  place  in  the  factory,  and  you 
have  a  hard  master;  but  pray  be  patient,  and  perhaps  some* 
thing— — ” 

“  Patient!  ”  said  he,  interrupting  her;  “  haven’t  I  been 
patient?  Did  I  say  a  word  when  he  came  and  took  me  away, 
for  no  earthly  reason,  from  the  place  where  everybody  was 
kind  to  me?  I’d  paid  him  truly  every  cent  of  my  earnings,— 
and  they  all  say  I  worked  well.” 

“Well,  it  is  dreadful,”  said  Eliza;  “  but,  after  all,  he  is  your 
master,  you  know.” 

“  My  master!  and  who  made  him  my  master?  That’s  what 
I  think  of, — what  right  has  he  to  me?  I’m  a  man  as  much  as 
he  is.  I’m  a  better  man  than  lie  is.  I  know  more  about  busi¬ 
ness  than  he  does;  I  am  a  better  manager  than  he  is;  I  can 
read  better  than  he  can  :  I  can  write  a  better  hand,— and  I’ve 
learned  it  all  myself,  aud  no  thanks  to  him,— I’ve  learned  it 
in  spite  of  him;  and  now  what  right  has  he  to  ra°ke  a  dray- 
horse  of  me? — to  take  me  from  things*  I  cav’  do.  and  do  better 
than  he  can,  and  put  me  to  work  that  any  horse  can  do?  He 


16 


tTNCLE  tom’s  cabin;  OB, 


tries  to  do  it;  he  says  he’ll  bring  me  down  and  humble  me* 
and  he  puts  me  to  just  the  hardest,  meanest,  and  dirtiest 
work,  on  purpose! ” 

“  Oh,  George!  George!  you  frighten  me!  Why!  I  never 
heard  you  talk  so;  I’m  afraid  you’ll  do  something  dreadful. 
I  don’t  wonder  at  your  feelings  at  all;  but  oh,  do  be  careful — 
do,  do,— for  my  sake, — for  Harry’s! 99 

“  I  have  been  careful,  and  I  have  been  patient,  but  it’s 
growing  worse  and  worse;  flesh  and  blood  can’t  bear  it  any 
longer;— every  chance  he  can  get  to  insult  and  torment  me, 
he  takes.  I  thought  I  could  do  my  work  well,  and  keep  on 
quiet,  and  have  some  time  to  read  and  learn  out  of  work 
hours;  but  the  more  he  sees  I  can  do,  the  more  he  loads  on. 
He  says  that  though  I  don’t  say  anything,  he  sees  I’ve  got 
the  devil  in  me,  and  he  means  to  bring  it  out;  and  one  of 
these  days  it  will  come  out  in  a  way  that  he  won’t  like,  or  I’m 
mistaken!  ” 

“  Oh,  dear!  what  shall  we  do?  ”  said  Eliza  mournfully. 

“  It  was  only  yesterday,”  said  George,  “  as  I  was  busy  load¬ 
ing  stones  into  a  cart,  that  young  Mas’r  Tom  stood  there, 
slashing  his  whip  so  near  the  horse  that  the  creature  was 
frightened.  I  asked  him  to  stop,  as  pleasantly  as  I  could,— 
he  just  kept  right  on.  I  begged  him  again,  and  then  he 
turned  on  me,  and  began  striking  me.  I  held  his  hand,  and 
then  he  screamed  and  kicked  and  ran  to  his  father,  and  told 
him  that  I  was  fighting  him.  He  came  in  a  rage,  and  said 
he’d  teach  me  who  was  my  master;  and  he  tied  me  to  a  tree, 
and  cut  switches  for  young  master,  and  told  him  that  he 
might  whip  me  till  he  was  tired;— and  he  did  do  it!  If  I 
don’t  make  him  remember  it,  some  time!  ”  and  the  brow  of 
the  young  man  grew  dark,  and  his  eyes  burned  with  an  ex¬ 
pression  that  made  his  young  wife  tremble.  “  Who  made 
this  man  my  master?  That’s  what  I  want  to  know!”  he 
said. 

“  Well,”  said  Eliza  mournfully,  “  I  always  thought  that  I 
must  obey  my  master  and  mistress,  or  I  couldn’t  be  a  Chris¬ 
tian.” 

“  There  is  some  sense  in  it,  in  your  case;  they  have  brought 
yon  up  like  a  child,  fed  you,  clothed  you,  indulged  you,  and 
taught  you,  so  that  you  have  a  good  education;  that  is  some 
reason  why  they  should  claim  you.  But  I  have  been  kicked 
and  cuffed  and  sworn  at,  and  at  the  best  only  let  alone;  and 
mh at  do  I  owe?  I’ve  paid  for  all  my  keeping  a  hundred  timed 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY.  HP 

over.  I  won't  bear  it.  No,  I  won't!"  he  said,  clenching  his 
hand  with  a  fierce  frown. 

Eliza  trembled,  and  was  silent.  She  had  never  seen  her 
husband  in  this  mood  before;  and  her  gentle  system  of  ethics 
seemed  to  bend  like  a  reed  in  the  surges  of  such  passions. 

“  You  know  poor  little  Carlo,  that  you  ga^re  me”  added 
George;  “the  creature  has  been  about  all  the  comfort 
that  I’ve  had.  He  has  slept  with  me  nights,  and  followed  me 
around  days,  and  kind  o’  looked  at  me  as  if  he  understood 
how  I  felt.  Well,  the  other  day  I  was  just  feeding  him  with 
a  few  old  scraps  I  picked  up  by  the  kitchen  door,  and  mas’r 
came  along,  and  said  I  was  feeding  him  at  his  expense,  and 
that  he  couldn’t  afford  to  have  every  nigger  keeping  his  dog, 
and  ordered  me  to  tie  a  stone  to  his  neck  and  throw  him  m 
the  pond.” 

“  Oh,  George,  you  didn’t  do  it!  ” 

“Do  it?  not  I!— but  he  did.  Mas’r  Tom  pelted  the  poor 
drowning  creature  with  stones.  Poor  thing!  he  looked  at  me 
so  mournful,  as  if  he  wondered  why  I  didn’t  save  him.  i 
had  to  take  a  flogging  because  I  wouldn’t  do  it  myself.  I 
don’t  care.  Mas’r  will  find  out  that  I’m  one  that  whipping 
won’t  tame.  My  day  will  come  yet,  if  he  don’t  look  out.” 

“What  are  you  going  to  do?  Oh,  George,  don’t  do  any¬ 
thing  wicked!  If  you  only  trust  in  God,  and  try  to  do  right, 
he’ll  deliver  you.” 

“  I  an’t  a  Christian  like  you,  Eliza;  my  heart’s  full  of  bit¬ 
terness;  I  can’t  trust  in  God.  Why  does  he  let  things  be  so?  ” 

“  Oh,  George!  we  must  have  faith.  Mistress  says  that 
when  all  things  go  wrong  with  us,  we  must  believe  that  God 
is  doing  the  very  best.” 

“That’s  easy  to  say  for  people  that  are  sitting  on  their  sofas 
and  riding  in  their  carriages;  but  let  ’em  be  where  I  am,  1 
guess  it  would  come  some  harder.  I  wish  I  could  be  good; 
but  my  heart  burns,  and  can’t  be  reconciled,  anyhow.  You 
couldn’t,  in  my  place, — you  can’t  now,  if  I  tell  you  all  I’ve 
got  to  say.  You  don’t  know  the  whole  yet.” 

“  What  can  be  coming  now?  ” 

“Well,  lately  mas’r  has  been  saying  that  he  was  a  fool  to 
let  me  marry  off  the  place;  that  he  hates  Mr.  Shelby  and  all 
his  tribe,  because  they  are  proud,  and  hold  their  heads  up 
above  him,  and  that  I’ve  got  proud  notions  from  you;  and  he 
says  he  won’t  let  me  come  here  any  more,  and  that  I  shall  take 
A  wife  mid  settle  down  on  his  place.  At  first  he  only  scoldacl 


18 


UNCLE  TOM?S  CABIN;  OB, 

and  grumbled  these  things;  but  yesterday  he  told  me  that  I 
should  take  Mina  for  a  wife,  and  settle  down  in  a  cabin  with 
her,  or  he  would  sell  me  down  river.” 

“  Why— but  you  were  married  to  me,  by  the  minister,  as 
much  as  if  you’d  been  a  white  man!  ”  said  Eliza  simply. 

“  Don't  you  know  a  slave  can’t  be  married?  There  is  no 
law  in  this  country  for  that;  I  can’t  hold  you  for  my  wife  if 
he  chooses  to  part  us.  That’s  why  I  wish  I’d  never  seen  you, 
— why  I  wish  I’d  never  been  bom.  It  would  have  been  bet¬ 
ter  for  us  both, — it  would  have  been  better  for  this  poor  child 
if  he  had  never  been  born.  All  this  may  happen  to  him  yet!  ” 

“  Oh,  but  master  is  so  kind!  ” 

“  Yes;  but  who  knows? — he  may  die,- — and  then  he  may 
be  sold  to  nobody  knows  who.  What  pleasure  is  it  that  he  is 
handsome,  and  smart,  and  bright?  I  tell  you,  Eliza,  that  a 
sword  will  pierce  through  your  soul  for  every  good  and  pleas¬ 
ant  thing  your  child  is  or  has;  it  will  make  him  worth  too 
much  for  you  to  keep!  ” 

The  words  smote  heavily  on  Eliza’s  heart.  The  vision  of 
the  trader  came  before  her  eyes,  and,  as  if  someone  had  struck 
her  a  deadly  blow,  she  turned  pale  and  gasped  for  breath. 
She  looked  nervously  out  on  the  veranda,  where  the  boy,  tired 
of  the  grave  conversation,  had  retired,  and  where  he  was  rid¬ 
ing  triumphantly  up  and  down  on  Mr.  Shelby’s  walking-stick. 
She  would  have  spoken  to  tell  her  husband  her  fears,  but 
checked  herself. 

“  No,  no — he  has  enough  to  bear,  poor  fellow!  ”  she 
thought.  “  No,  I  won’t  tell  him;  besides,  it  an’t  true. 
Missis  never  deceives  us.” 

“  So,  Eliza,  my  girl,”  said  the  husband  mournfully,  “  bear 
up,  now;  and  good-by,  for  I’m  going.” 

“  Going,  George!  Going  where?  ” 

“To  Canada,”  said  he,  straightening  himself  up;  “and 
when  I’m  there,  I’ll  buy  you.  That’s  all  the  hope  that’s  left 
us.  You  have  a  kind  master,  that  won’t  refuse  to  sell  you. 
I’ll  buy  you  and  the  boy— God  helping  me,  I  will!  ” 

“  Oh,  dreadful!  if  you  should  be  taken?  ” 

“  I  won’t  be  taken.  Eliza;  I’ll  die  first!  I’ll  be  free,  or  I’ll 
die!” 

“You  won’t  kill  yourself!” 

“  No  need  of  that.  They  will  kill  me,  fast  enough;  they 
never  will  get  me  down  the  river  alive!  ” 

“  Oil,  U  gorge,  for  my  sake,  do  be  careful!  Don’t  do  any- 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  L0WLY9 


m 

thing  wicked;  don’t  lay  hands  on  yourself,  or  anybody  else. 
You  are  tempted  too  much,— too  much;  but  don’t— go  you 
must — but  go  carefully,  prudently;  pray  God  to  help  you/’ 

“  Well,  then,  Eliza,  hear  my  plan.  Mas’r  took  it  into  his 
head  to  send  me  right  by  here  with  a  note  to  Mr.  Symmes, 
that  lives  a  mile  past.  I  believe  he  expected  I  should  come 
here  to  tell  you  what  I  have.  It  would  please  him  if  he 
thought  it  would  aggravate  6  Shelby’s  folks/  as  he  calls  ’em. 
I’m  going  home  quite  resigned,  you  understand,  as  if  all  was 
over.  I’ve  got  some  preparations  made,— and  there  are  those 
that  will  help  me;  and,  in  the  course  of  a  week  or  so,  I  shall 
be  among  the  missing,  some  day.  Pray  for  me,  Eliza;  per¬ 
haps  the  good  Lord  will  hear  you” 

“  Oh,  pray  yourself,  George,  and  go  trusting  in  Him;  then 
you  won’t  do  anything  wicked.” 

“  Well,  now,  good-by ,”  said  George,  holding  Eliza’s  hands, 
and  gazing  into  her  eyes,  without  moving.  They  stood  silent; 
then  there  were  last  words,  and  Sobs,  and  bitter  weeping,— 
such  parting  as  those  may  make  whose  hope  to  meet  again  is 
as  the  spider’s  web,— and  the  husband  and  wife  were  parted. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

AN  EVENING  IN  UNCLE  TOM’S  CABIN. 

The  cabin  of  Uncle  Tom  was  a  small  log  building  close  ad¬ 
joining  to  “  the  house,”  as  the  negro  par  excellence  designates 
his  master’s  dwelling.  In  front  it  had  a  neat  garden-patch, 
where,  every  summer,  strawberries,  raspberries,  and  a  variety 
of  fruits  and  vegetables  flourished  under  careful  tending. 
The  whole  front  of  it  was  covered  by  a  large  scarlet  bignonia 
and  a  native  multiflora  rose,  which,  intwisting  and  interlac¬ 
ing,  left  scarce  a  vestige  of  the  rough  logs  to  be  seen.  Here, 
also,  in  summer,  various  brilliant  annuals,  such  as  marigolds, 
petunias,  four-o’clocks,  found  an  indulgent  corner  in  which 
to  unfold  their  splendors,  and  were  the  delight  and  pride  of 
Aunt  Chloe’s  heart. 

Let  us  enter  the  dwelling.  The  evening  meal  at  the  house 
is  over,  and  Aunt  Chloe,  who  presided  over  its  preparation  as 
head  e@ok,  has  left  to  inferior  officers  in  the  kitchen  the  busi¬ 
ness  of  clearing  away  and  washing  dishes,  and  come  out  into 

her  own  snug  territories*  to  “  get  her  ole  man’s  supper 


20  UNCLE  tom’s  CABIN  ;  O B, 

therefore,  doubt  not  that  it  is  she  you  see  fcy  the  fire,  preside 
ing  with  anxious  interest  over  certain  frizzling  items  in  a  stew- 
pan,  and  anon  with  grave  consideration  lifting  the  cover  of  a 
hake-kettle,  from  whence  steam  forth  indubitable  intimations 
of  “  something  good.”  A  round,  black,  shining  face  is  hers, 
so  glossy  as  to  suggest  the  idea  that  she  might  have  been 
washed  over  with  white  of  eggs,  like  cue  of  her  own  tea  rusks. 
Her  whole  plump  countenance  beams  with  satisfaction  and 
contentment  from  under  her  well-starched  checked  turban, 
bearing  on  it,  however,  if  we  must  confess  it,  a  little  of  that 
tinge  of  self-consciousness  which  becomes  the  first  cook  of  the 
neighborhood,  as  Aunt  Chloe  was  universally  held  and  ac¬ 
knowledged  to  be. 

A  cook  she  certainly  was,  in  the  very  bone  and  center  of 
her  soul.  Not  a  chicken  or  turkey  or  duck  in  the  barnyard 
but  looked  grave  when  they  saw  her  approaching,  and  seemed 
evidently  to  be  reflecting  on  their  latter  end;  and  certain  it 
was  that  she  was  always  meditating  on  trussing,  stuffing,  and 
roasting,  to  a  degree  that  was  calculated  to  inspire  terror  in 
any  reflecting  fowl  living.  Her  corn-cake,  in  all  its  varieties 
of  hoe-cake,  dodgers,  muffins,  and  other  species  too  numerous 
to  mention,  was  a  sublime  mystery  to  all  less  practiced  com¬ 
pounders;  and  she  would  shake  her  fat  sides  with  honest 
pride  and  merriment,  as  she  would  narrate  the  fruitless 
efforts  that  one  and  another  of  her  compeers  had  made  to  at¬ 
tain  to  her  elevation. 

The  arrival  of  company  at  the  house,  the  arrangement  of 
dinners  and  suppers  “  in  style,”  awoke  all  the  energies  of  her 
soul;  and  no  sight  was  more  welcome  to  her  than  a  pile  of 
traveling-trunks  launched  on  the  veranda,  for  then  she  fore¬ 
saw  fresh  efforts  and  fresh  triumphs. 

Just  at  present,  however.  Aunt  Chloe  is  looking  into  the 
bake-pan;  in  which  congenial  operation  we  shall  leave  her 
till  we  finish  onr  picture  of  the  cottage. 

In  one  corner  of  it  stood  a  bed,  covered  neatly  with  a  snowy 
spread;  and  by  the  side  of  it  was  a  piece  of  carpeting,  of 
some  considerable  size.  On  this  piece  of  carpeting  Aunt 
Chloe  took  her  stand,  as  being  decidedly  in  the  upper  walks 
of  life;  and  it  and  the  bed  by  which  it  lay,  and  the  whole  cor¬ 
ner,  in  fact,  were  treated  with  distinguished  consideration, 
and  made,  so  far  as  possible,  sacred  from  the  marauding 
inroads  and  desecrations  of  little  folks.  In  fact,  that  comer 
was  the  drawing  room  of  the  establishment.  In  the  othej 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY. 


SI 


corner  was  a  bed  of  much  humbler  pretensions,  and  evidently 
designed  for  use.  The  wall  over  the  fireplace  was  adorned 
with  some  very  brilliant  scriptural  prints,  and  a  portrait  of 
General  Washington,  drawn  and  colored  in  a  manner  which 
would  certainly  have  astonished  that  hero,  if  ever  he  had  hap¬ 
pened  to  meet  with  its  like. 

On  a  rough  bench  in  the  comer,  a  couple  of  woolly-headed 
boys,  with  glistening  black  eyes  and  fat  shining  cheeks,  were 
busy  in  superintending  the  first  walking  operations  of  the 
baby,  which,  as  is  usually  the  case,  consisted  in  getting  up  on 
its  feet,  balancing  a  moment,  and  then  tumbling  down, — each 
successive  failure  being  violently  cheered,  as  something  de¬ 
cidedly  clever. 

A  table,  somewhat  rheumatic  in  its  limbs,  was  drawn  out 
in  front  of  the  fire,  and  covered  with  a  cloth,  displaying  cups 
and  saucers  of  a  decidedly  brilliant  pattern,  with  other  symp¬ 
toms  of  an  approaching  meal.  At  this  table  was  seated  Uncle 
Tom,  Mr.  Shelby’s  best  hand,  who,  as  he  is  to  be  the  hero  of 
our  story,  we  must  daguerreotype  for  our  readers.  He  was  a 
large,  broad-chested,  powerfully  made  man,  of  a  full  glossy 
black,  and  a  face  whose  truly  African  features  were  character¬ 
ized  by  an  expression  of  grave  and  steady  good  sense,  united 
with  much  kindliness  and  benevolence.  There  was  some¬ 
thing  about  his  whole  air  self-respecting  and  dignified,  yet 
united  with  a  confiding  and  humble  simplicity. 

He  was  very  busily  intent  at  this  moment  on  a  slate  lying 
before  him,  on  which  he  was  carefully  and  slowly  endeavoring 
to  accomplish  a  copy  of  some  letters,  in  which  operation  he 
was  overlooked  by  young  Mas’r  George,  a  smart,  bright  boy  of 
thirteen,  who  appeared  fully  to  realize  the  dignity  of  his  posi¬ 
tion  as  instructor. 

“Not  that  way,  Uncle  Tom,— not  that  way,”  said  he 
briskly,  as  Uncle  Tom  laboriously  brought  up  the  tail  of  his  g 
the  wrong  side  out;  “  that  makes  a  q,  you  see.” 

“  La  sakes,  now,  does  it?  ”  said  Uncle  Tom,  looking  with 
U  respectful,  admiring  air,  as  his  young  teacher  flourishingly 
scrawled  out  g’s  and  tf s  innumerable  for  his  edification;  and 
then,  taking  the  pencil  in  his  big,  heavy  fingers,  he  patiently 
recommenced. 

“  How  easy  white  folks  aFus  does  things!  ”  said  Aunt 
Chloe,  pausing  while  she  was  greasing  a  griddle  with  a  scrap 
of  bacon  on  her  fork,  and  regarding  young  Master  George 
with  pride. 


22  TOOLS  T0M*3  CABIIT  ;  OB, 

“The  way  he  can  write,  now!  and  read,  too!  and  then  to 
come  out  here  evenings  and  read  his  lessons  to  us,— it’s 
mighty  interesting  ” 

“  But,  Aunt  Chloe,  I’m  getting  mighty  hungry,”  said 
George.  “  Isn’t  that  cake  in  the  ski1 -et  almost  done?  ” 

“  Mos’  done,  Mas’r  George,”  said  1  unt  Chloe,  lifting  the 
lid  and  peeping  in, — “browning  beautiful, — a  real  lovely 
*  brown.  Ah!  let  me  alone  for  dat.  Missis  let  Sally  try  to 
make  some  cake,  t’other  day,  jest  to  lam  her,  she  said.  ‘  Oh, 
go  ’way,  missis/  says  I;  ‘it  really  hurts  my  feelin’s,  now,  to 
see  good  vittles  spiled  dat  ar  way!  ’  Cake  ris  all  to  one  side, 
—no  shape  at  all;  no  more  than  my  shoe;— go  ’way!  ” 

And  with  this  final  expression  of  contempt  for  Sally’s 
greenness,  Aunt  Chloe  whipped  the  cover  off  the  bake-kettle, 
and  disclosed  to  view  a  neatly  baked  pound-cake,  of  which  no 
city  confectioner  need  to  have  been  ashamed.  This  being 
evidently  the  central  point  of  the  entertainment  Aunt  Chloe 
began  now  to  bustle  about  earnestly  in  the  supper  depart¬ 
ment. 

“  Here  you,  Mose  and  Pete!  get  out  de  way,  you  niggers! 
Get  away,  Polly,  honey, — mammy  ’ll  give  her  baby  somefin* 
by  and  by.  Now,  Mas’r  George,  you  jest  take  off  dem  books, 
and  set  down  now  with  my  old  man,  and  I’ll  take  up  de  sau¬ 
sages,  and  have  de  first  griddleful  of  cakes  on  your  plates  in 
less  dan  no  time.” 

“  They  wanted  me  to  come  to  supper  in  the  house,”  said 
George;  “  but  I  knew  what  was  what  too  well  for  that,  Aunt 
Chloe.” 

“  So  you  did,— so  you  did,  honey,”  said  Aunt  Chloe,  heap¬ 
ing  the  "smoking  batter-cakes  on  his  plate;  “you  knowd  your 
old  aunty’ J  keep  the  best  for  you.  Oh,  let  you  alone  for  dat! 
Go  ’way!  ”  and,  with  that,  aunty  gave  George  a  nudge  with 
her  finger,  designed  to  be  immensely  facetious,  and  turned 
again  to  her  griddle  with  great  briskness. 

“  Now  for  the  cake,”  said  Mas’r  George,  when  the  activity 
of  the  griddle  department  had  somewhat  subsided;  and,  with 
that,  the  youngster  flourished  a  large  knife  over  the  article  in 
question. 

“  La  bless  you,  Mas’r  George!  ”  said  Aunt  Chloe  with  ear¬ 
nestness,  catching  his  arm,  “you  wouldn’t  be  for  cuttin’  it 
wid  dat  ar  great  heavy  knife!  Smash  it  all  down,— spile  all 
the  pretty  rise  of  it.  Here,  I’ve  got  a  thin  old  knife,  I  keeps 
sharp  a  purpose.  Bar  now,  see!  comes  apart  light  as  a 


LIFE  AMONG  THS  LOWLY, 


m 


feather!  Now,  eat  away, — you  won’t  get  anything  to  beat 
dat  ar.” 

“  Tom  Lincon  says/’  said  George,  speaking  with  his  mouth 
full,  “  that  their  Jinny  is  a  better  cook  than  you.” 

“  Dem  Lincons  an’t  much  ’count,  noway!  ”  said  Aunt 
Chloe  contemptuously;  “  I  mean,  set  alongside  our  folks. 
They’s  ’spectable  folks  enough  in  a  kinder  plain  way;  but  as 
to  gettin’  up  anything  in  style,  they  don’t  begin  to  have  a 
notion  on’t.  Set  Mas’r  Lincon,  now,  \iongside  Mas’r  Shelby! 
Good  Lor!  and  Missis  Lincon, — can  she  kinder  sweep  it  into 
a  room  like  my  missis,— so  kinder  splendid,  yer  know!  Oh, 
go  ’way!  don’t  tell  me  nothin’  of  dem  Lincons!  ’’—and  Aunt 
Chloe  tossed  her  head  as  one  who  hoped  she  did  know  some¬ 
thing  of  the  world. 

“  Well,  though,  I’ve  heard  you  say,”  said  George,  “  that 
Jinny  was  a  pretty  fair  cook.” 

■■  So  I  did,”  said  Aunt  Chloe, — “  I  may  say  dat.  Good, 
plain,  common  cookin’  Jinny  ’ll  do; — make  a  good  pone  o’ 
bread,— bile  her  taters  /ur, — her  corn-cakes  isn’t  extra,  not 
extra  now,  Jinny’s  corn-cakes  isn’t,  but  then  they’s  far, — but, 
Lor,  come  to  de  higher  branches,  and  what  can  she  do? 
Why,  she  makes  pies, — sartin  she  does;  but  what  kinder 
crust?  Can  she  make  your  real  flecky  paste,  as  melts  in  your 
mouth,  and  lies  all  up  like  a  puff?  Now,  I  wrent  over  thar 
when  Miss  Mary  was  gwine  to  be  married,  and  Jinny  she  jest 
showed  me  de  weddin’  pies.  Jinny  and  I  is  good  friends,  ye 
know.  I  never  said  nothin’;  but  go  ’long,  Mas’r  George! 
Why,  I  shouldn’t  sleep  a  wink  for  a  week,  if  I  had  a  batch  of 
pies  like  dem  ar.  Why,  dey  warn’t  no  ’count ’t  all.” 

“I  suppose  Jinny  thought  they  were  ever  so  nice,”  said 
George. 

“  Thought  so!— didn’t  she?  Thar  she  was  showing  ’em  as 
innocent,— ye  see,  it’s  jest  here,  Jinny  don’t  know.  Lor,  the 
family  an’t  nothing!  She  can’t  be  ’spected  to  know!  ’Tan’t 
no  fault  o’  hern.  Ah,  Mas’r  George,  you  doesn’t  know  half 
your  privileges  in  yer  family  and  bringin’  up!  ”  Here  Aunt 
Chloe  sighed,  and  rolled  up  her  eyes  with  emotion. 

“I’m  sure,  Aunt  Chloe,  I  understand  all  my  pie  and  pud¬ 
ding  privileges,”  said  George.  “  Ask  Tom  Lincon  if  I  don’t 
crow  over  him,  every  time  I  meet  him.” 

Aunt  Chloe  sat  back  in  her  chair  and  indulged  in  a  hearty 
guffaw  of  laughter  at  this  witticism  of  young  mns’r,  laughing 
till  the  tears  rolled  down  her  black,  shining  cheeks,  and  vary- 


$4  UNCLE  tom’s  CABIN;  OR) 

ing  the  exercises  with  playfully  slapping  and  poking  Maaflp 
Georgy,  and  telling  him  to  go  ’way,  and  that  he  was  a  case,— 
that  he  was  fit  to  kill  her,  and  that  he  sartin  would  kill  her, 
one  of  these  days;  and  between  each  of  these  sanguinary  pre¬ 
dictions,  going  off  into  a  laugh,  each  longer  and  stronger  than 
the  other,  till  George  really  began  to  think  that  he  was  a  very 
dangerously  witty  fellow,  and  that  it  became  him  to  be  care¬ 
ful  how  he  talked  “  as  funny  as  he  could/’ 

“And  so  ye  telled  Tom,  did  ye?  Oh,  Lor!  what  young 
uns  will  be  up  ter!  Ye  crowed  over  Tom?  Oh,  Lor!  Mas’r 
George,  if  ye  wouldn’t  make  a  horn-bug  laugh!  ” 

“  Yes,”  said  George,  “  I  says  to  him,  ‘  Tom,  you  ought  to 
see  some  of  Aunt  Chloe’s  pies;  they’re  the  right  sort,’  says  I.” 

“  Pity  now,  Tom  couldn’t,”  said  Aunt  Chloe,  on  whose 
benevolent  heart  the  idea  of  Tom’s  benighted  condition 
seemed  to  make  a  strong  impression.  “  Ye  oughter  just  ask 
him  here  to  dinner,  some  o’  these  times,  Mas’r  George,”  she 
added;  “it  would  look  quite  pretty  of  ye.  Ye  know,  Mas’r 
George,  ye  oughtenter  feel  ’bove  nobody,  on  ’count  yer  privi¬ 
leges,  ’cause  all  our  privileges  is  gi’n  to  us;  we  ought  al’ays  to 
’member  that,”  said  Aunt  Chloe,  looking  quite  serious. 

“  Well,  I  mean  to  ask  Tom  here,  some  day  next  week,”  said 
George;  “and  you  do  your  prettiest,  Aunt  Chloe,  and  we’ll 
make  him  stare.  Won’t  we  make  him  eat  so  he  won’t  get 
over  it  for  a  fortnight?  ” 

“Yes,  yes,— sartin,”  said  Aunt  Chloe,  delighted;  “you’ll 
see.  Lor!  to  think  of  some  of  our  dinners!  Yer  mind  dat 
ar  great  chicken-pie  I  made  when  we  guv  de  dinner  to  General 
Knox?  I  and  missis,  we  come  pretty  near  quarreling  about 
dat  ar  crust.  What  does  get  into  ladies  sometimes,  I  don’t 
know;  but,  sometimes,  when  a  body  has  de  heaviest  kind  o’ 
’sponsibility  on  ’em,  as  ye  may  say,  and  is  all  kinder  seris  and 
taken  up,  dey  takes  dat  ar  time  to  be  hangin’  round  and 
kinder  interferin’!  Now,  missis,  she  wanted  me  to  do  dis 
way,  and  she  wanted  me  to  do  dat  way;  and,  finally,  I  got 
kinder  sarcy,  and,  says  I,  c  Now,  missis,  do  jist  look  at  dem 
beautiful  white  hands  o’  yourn,  with  long  fingers,  and  all 
a-sparkling  with  rings,  like  my  white  lilies  when  de  dew ’s  on 
’em;  and  look  at  my  great  black  stumpin’  hands.  Now,  don’t 
ye  think  dat  de  Lord  must  have  meant  me  to  make  de  pie¬ 
crust,  and  you  to  stay  in  de  parlor?  ’  Dar!  I  was  jist  so  sarcy, 
Mas’r  George.” 

“And  what  did  mother  say?”  said  George. 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY.  25 

44  Say?— why,  she  kinder  larfed  in  her  eyes,— dem  great 
handsome  eyes  o’  hern;  and,  says  she,  ‘  Well,  Aunt  Chloe,  I 
think  you  are  about  in  the  right  on’t,’  says  she;  and  she  went 
off  in  de  parlor.  She  oughter  cracked  me  over  de  head  for 
being  so  sarcy;  but  dar’s  whar  ’tis— I  can’t  do  nothin’  with 
ladies  in  de  kitchen!  ” 

“  Well,  you  made  out  well  with  that  dinner,— I  remember 
everybody  said  so,”  said  George. 

44  Didn’t  I?  And  wan’t  I  behind  de  dinin’-room  door  dat 
bery  day?  and  didn’t  I  see  de  gineral  pass  his  plate  three 
times  for  some  more  dat  bery  pie?  and,  says  he,  6  You  must 
have  an  uncommon  cook,  Mrs.  Shelby.’  Lor!  I  was  fit  to 
split  myself. 

“And  de  gineral,  he  knows  what  cookin’  is,”  said  Aunt 
Chloe,  drawing  herself  up  with  an  air.  “  Bery  nice  man,  de 
gineral!  He  comes  of  one  of  de  bery  fustest  families  in  Old 
Yirginny!  He  knows  what’s  what,  now,  as  well  as  I  do, — de 
gineral.  Ye  see,  there’s  pints  in  all  pies,  Mas’r  George;  but 
’tan’t  everybody  knows  what  they  is  or  orter  be.  But  de 
gineral,  he  knows;  I  knew  by  his  ’marks  he  made.  Yes,  he 
knows  what  de  pints  is!  ” 

By  this  time,  Master  George  had  arrived  at  that  pass  to 
which  even  a  boy  can  come  (under  uncommon  circumstances), 
when  he  really  could  not  eat  another  morsel,  and,  therefore, 
he  was  at  leisure  to  notice  the  pile  of  woolly  heads  and  glis¬ 
tening  eyes  which  were  regarding  their  operations  hungrily 
from  the  opposite  corner. 

“  Here,  you  Mose,  Pete,”  he  said,  breaking  off  liberal  bits 
and  throwing  them  at  them;  “you  want  some,  don’t  you? 
Come,  Aunt  Chloe,  bake  them  some  cakes.” 

And  George  and  Tom  moved  to  a  comfortable  seat  in  the 
chimney-corner,  while  Aunt  Chloe,  after  baking  a  goodly  pile 
of  cakes,  took  her  baby  on  her  lap,  and  began  alternately  fill¬ 
ing  its  mouth  and  her  own,  and  distributing  to  Mose  and  Pete, 
who  seemed  rather  to  prefer  eating  theirs  as  they  rolled  about 
on  the  floor,  under  the  table,  tickling  each  other,  and  occa¬ 
sionally  pulling  the  baby’s  toes. 

“  Oh,  go  ’long,  will  ye?  ”  said  the  mother,  giving  now  and 
then  a  kick,  in  a  kind  of  general  *wav,  under  the  table,  when 
the  movement  became  too  obstreperous.  “  Can’t  ye  be  decent 
when  white  folks  comes  to  see  ye?  Stop  dat  ar,  now,  will  yc? 
Better  mind  yerselves,  or  I’ll  take  ye  down  a  buttonhole  lower, 
when  Mas’r  George  is  gone!  ” 


£6  UNCLE  TOM^S  CABIN;  OB, 

What  meaning  was  couched  under  this  terrible  threat,  it  k 
difficult  to  say;  but  certain  it  is  that  its  awful  indistinctness 
seemed  to  produce  very  little  impression  on  the  young  sinners 
addressed. 

“  La,  now!  ”  said  Uncle  Tom,  “  they  are  so  full  of  tickle 
all  the  while,  they  can’t  behave  themselves.” 

Here  the  boys  emerged  from  under  the  table,  and  with 
hands  and  faces  well  plastered  with  molasses,  began  a  vigor¬ 
ous  kissing  of  the  baby. 

“  Get  along  wid  ye!  ”  said  the  mother,  pushing  away  their 
woolly  heads.  “  Ye’ll  all  stick  together,  and  never  get  clar, 
if  ye  do  dat  fashion.  Go  ’long  to  de  spring  and  wash  yer- 
selves!  ”  she  said,  seconding  her  exhortations  by  a  slap,  which 
resounded  very  formidably,  but  which  seemed  only  to  knock 
out  so  much  more  laugh  from  the  young  ones,  as  they 
tumbled  precipitately  over  each  other  out  of  doors,  where  they 
fairly  screamed  with  merriment. 

“Did  ye  ever  see  such  aggravating  young  uns?  ”  said  Aunt 
Chloe  rather  complacently,  as  producing  an  old  towel,  kept 
for  such  emergencies,  she  poured  a  little  water  out  of  the 
cracked  teapot  on  it,  and  began  rubbing  off  the  molasses  from 
the  baby’s  face  and  hands;  and,  having  polished  her  till  she 
shone,  she  set  her  down  in  Tom’s  lap,  while  she  busied  herself 
in  clearing  away  supper.  The  baby  employed  the  intervals 
in  pulling  Tom’s  nose,  scratching  his  face,  and  burying  her 
fat  hands  in  his  woolly  hair,  which  last  operation  seemed  to 
afford  her  special  content. 

“  An’t  she  a  peart  young  un?  ”  said  Tom,  holding  her  from 
him  to  take  a  full-length  view;  then,  getting  up,  he  set  her  on 
his  broad  shoulder  and  began  capering  and  dancing  with  her 
while  Mas’r  George  snapped  at  her  with  his  pocket-handker¬ 
chief,  and  Mose  and  Pete,  now  returned  again,  roared  after 
her  like  bears,  till  Aunt  Chloe  declared  that  they  “  fairly  took 
her  head  off  ”  with  their  noise.  As,  according  to  her  own 
statement,  this  surgical  operation  was  a  matter  of  daily  occur¬ 
rence  in  the  cabin,  the  declaration  no  whit  abated  the  merri¬ 
ment,  till  everyone  had  roared  and  tumbled  and  danced  them¬ 
selves  down  to  a  state  of  composure. 

“  Well,  now,  I  hopes  you’re  done,”  said  Aunt  Chloe,  who 
had  been  busy  in  pulling  out  a  rude  box  of  a  trundle-bed; 
“and  now,  you  Mose  and  you  Pete,  get  into  tharj  for  we’s 
goin’  to  have  the  meetink” 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY.  *7 

515  Oh,  mother!  we  don’t  wanter.  We  wants  to  sit  up  to 
meeting— meeting  is  so  euris.  We  likes  ’em.” 

“  La,  Aunt  Chloe,  shove  it  under,  and  let  ’em  sit  up/’  said 
Mas’r  George  decisively,  giving  a  push  to  the  rude  machine. 

Aunt  Chloe,  having  thus  saved  appearances,  seemed  highly 
delighted  to  push  the  thing  under,  saying,  as  she  did  so, 
“  Well,  mebbe  ’twill  do  ’em  some  good.” 

The  house  now  resolved  itself  into  a  committee  of  the 
whole,  to  consider  the  accommodations  and  arrangements  for 
the  meeting. 

“  What  we’s  to  do  for  cheers,  now,  I  declar’  I  don’t  know,” 
said  Aunt  Chloe.  As  the  meeting  had  been  held  at  Uncle 
Tom’s,  weekly,  for  an  indefinite  length  of  time,  without  any 
more  “  cheers,”  there  seemed  some  encouragement  to  hope 
that  a  way  would  be  discovered  at  present. 

“  Old  Uncle  Peter  sung  both  de  legs  out  of  dat  oldest  cheer, 
last  week,”  suggested  Mose. 

“  You  go  ’long!  I’ll  boun’  you  pulled  ’em  out;  some  o* 
your  shines,”  said  Aunt  Chloe. 

“  Well,  it  ’ll  stand,  if  it  only  keeps  jam  up  agin  de  wall!  ” 
said  Mose. 

“  Den  Uncle  Peter  mus’n’t  sit  in  it,  ’caus^  he  al’ays  hitches 
when  he  gets  a-singing.  He  hitched  pretty  nigh  across  de 
room,  t’other  night,”  said  Pete. 

“  Good  Lor!  get  him  in  it,  then,”  said  Mose,  “  and  den  he’d 
begin,  ‘  Come,  saints  and  sinners,  hear  me  tell,’  and  den  down 
he’d  go,”— and  Mose  imitated  precisely  the  nasal  tones  of  the 
old  man,  tumbling  on  the  floor  to  illustrate  the  supposed 
catastrophe. 

“  Come,  now,  be  decent,  can’t  ye?  ”  said  Aunt  Chloe;  “  an’t 
yer  ’shamed?  ” 

Mas’r  George,  however,  joined  the  offender  in  the  laugh, 
and  declared  decidedly  that  Mose  was  a  “  buster.”  So  the 
maternal  admonition  seemed  rather  to  fail  of  effect. 

“  Well,  ole  man,”  said  Aunt  Chloe,  “  you’ll  have  to  tote  in 
them  ar  bar’ls.” 

“  Mother’s  bar’ls  is  like  dat  ar  widder’s  Mas’r  George  was 
reading  ’bout  in  de  good  book,— dey  never  fails,”  said  Mose 
aside  to  Pete. 

“  I’m  sure  one  on  ’em  caved  in  last  week,”  said  Pete,  “  and 
let  ’em  all  down  in  de  middle  of  de  singin’;  dat  ar  was  failix/* 
warn’t  it?  ” 


■M  UNCLE  TOM’S  .CABIN  OB, 

During  this  aside  between  Mose  and  Pete  two  empty  casta 
had  been  rolled  into  the  cabin,  and  being  secured  from  roll¬ 
ing,  by  stones  on  each  side,  boards  were  laid  across  them, 
which  arrangement,  together  with  the  turning  down  of  cer¬ 
tain  tubs  and  pails,  and  the  disposing  of  the  rickety  chairs,  at 
last  completed  the  preparation. 

“  Mas’r  George  is  such  a  beautiful  reader,  now,  I  know  hell 
stay  to  read  for  us/’  said  Aunt  Chloe;  “  ’pears  like  ’twill  be  so 
much  more  interestin’.” 

George  very  readily  consented,  for  your  boy  is  always  ready 
for  anything  that  makes  him  of  importance. 

The  room  was  soon  filled  with  a  motley  assemblage,  from 
the  old  gray-headed  patriarch  of  eighty,  to  the  young  girl  and 
lad  of  fifteen.  A  little  harmless  gossip  ensued  on  various 
themes,  such  as  where  Old  Aunt  Sally  got  her  new  red  head- 
kerchief,  and  how  “  Missis  was  a-going  to  give  Lizzy  that 
spotted  muslin  gown,  when  she’d  got  her  new  berage  made 
up;”  and  how  Mas’r  Shelby  was  thinking  of  buying  a  new 
sorrel  colt,  that  was  going  to  prove  an  addition  to  the  glories 
of  the  place.  A  few  of  the  worshipers  belonged  to  families 
hard  by,  who  had  got  permission  to  attend,  and  who  brought 
in  various  choice  scraps  of  information,  about  the  sayings  and 
doings  at  the  house  and  on  the  place,  which  circulated  as 
freely  as  the  same  sort  of  small  change  does  in  higher  circles. 

After  a  while  the  singing  commenced,  to  the  evident  de¬ 
light  of  all  present.  Not  even  all  the  disadvantages  of  nasal 
intonation  could  prevent  the  effect  of  the  naturally  fine 
voices,  in  airs  at  once  wild  and  spirited.  The  words  were 
sometimes  the  well-known  and  common  hymns  sung  in  the 
churches  about,  and  sometimes  of  a  wilder,  more  indefinite 
character,  picked  up  at  camp-meetings. 

The  chorus  of  one  of  them,  which  ran  as  follows,  was  sung 
with  great  energy  and  unction: 

“Die  on  the  field  of  battle. 

Die  on  the  field  of  battle. 

Glory  in  my  soul/' 

^Another  special  favorite  had,  oft  repeated,  the  words: 

tf,Oh,  I’m  goin$  to  glory. — won't  you  come  along  with  me  ? 

Don’t  you  see  the  angels  beck'ning,  and  a-calling  me  awayt 
Don’t  you  see  the  golden  city  and  the  everlasting  da^  * 99 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY. 


m 

There  were  others,  which  made  incessant  mention  of  “  Jor¬ 
dan's  banks/'  and  “  Canaan's  fields/'  and  the  “  Hew  Jerusa¬ 
lem";  for  the  negro  mind,  impassioned  and  imaginative, 
always  attaches  itself  to  hymns  and  expressions  of  a  vivid  and 
pictorial  nature;  and,  as  they  sung,  some  laughed,  and  some 
cried,  and  some  clapped  hands,  or  shook  hands  rejoicingly 
with  each  other,  as  if  they  had  fairly  gained  the  other  side  of 
the  river. 

Various  exhortations,  or  relations  of  experience,  followed, 
and  intermingled  with  the  singing.  One  old,  gray-headed 
woman,  long  past  work,  but  much  revered  as  a  sort  of 
chronicle  of  the  past,  rose,  and,  leaning  on  her  staff,  said: 

“Well,  chil'en!  Well,  I'm  mighty  glad  to  hear  ye  all  and 
see  ye  all  once  more,  'cause  I  don't  know  when  I'll  be  gone  to 
glory;  but  I've  done  got  ready,  chil'en;  'pears  like  I'd  got  my 
little  bundle  all  tied  up,  and  my  bonnet  on,  jest  a-waitin'  for 
the  stage  to  come  along  to  take  me  home;  sometimes,  in  the 
night,  I  think  I  hear  the  wheels  a-rattlin',  and  I'm  lookin' 
out  all  the  time;  now,  you  jest  be  ready  too,  for  I  tell  ye  all, 
chil'en,"  she  said,  striking  her  staff  hard  on  the  floor,  “  dat 
glory  is  a  mighty  thing!  It's  a  mighty  thing,  chil'en, — you 
don'no  nothing  about  it,— it's  wonderful And  the  old 
creature  sat  down  with  streaming  tears,  as  wholly  overcome, 
while  the  whole  circle  struck  up: 

4<  O  Canaan,  bright  Canaan, 

I’m  bound  for  the  land  of  Canaan.” 

Mas'r  George,  by  request,  read  the  last  chapters  of  Revela¬ 
tion,  often  interrupted  by  such  exclamations  as  “  The  saJces 
now!"  “Only  hear  that!"  “Jest  think  on't!"  “Is  all 
that  a-comin'  sure  enough?  " 

George,  who  was  a  bright  boy,  and  well  trained  in  religious 
things  by  his  mother,  finding  himself  an  object  of  general 
admiration,  threw  in  expositions  of  his  own,  from  time  to 
time,  with  a  commendable  seriousness  and  gravity,  for  which 
he  was  admired  by  the  young  and  blessed  by  the  old;  and  it 
was  agreed,  on  all  hands,  that  “  a  minister  couldn't  lay  it  off 
better  than  he  did  ";  that  “  'twas  reely  'mazin' !  "  f 

Uncle  Tom  was  a  sort  of  patriarch  in  religious  matters,  in 
the  neighborhood.  Having,  naturally,  an  organization  in 
which  the  morale  was  strongly  predominant,  together  with  a 
greater  breadth  and  cultivation  of  mind  than  obtained  among 


SO  UNCLB  TOM'S  CABIN  ;  OB<> 

his  companions,  he  was  looked  up  to  with  great  respect,  as  a 
sort  of  minister  among  them;  and  the  simple,  hearty,  sincere 
style  of  his  exhortations  might  have  edified  even  better  edu¬ 
cated  persons.  But  it  was  in  prayer  that  he  especially  ex¬ 
celled.  Nothing  could  exceed  the  touching  simplicity,  the 
childlike  earnestness  of  his  prayer,  enriched  with  the  language 
of  Scripture,  which  seemed  so  entirely  to  have  wrought  itself 
into  his  being  as  to  have  become  a  part  of  himself,  and  to  drop 
from  his  lips  unconsciously;  in  the  language  of  a  pious  old 
negro,  he  “  prayed  right  up.”  And  so  much  did  his  prayer 
always  work  on  the  devotional  feelings  of  his  audiences,  that 
there  seemed  often  a  danger  that  it  would  be  lost  altogether 
in  the  abundance  of  the  responses  which  broke  out  every¬ 
where  around  him. 

While  this  scene  was  passing  in  the  cabin  of  the  man,  one 
quite  otherwise  passed  in  the  halls  of  the  master. 

The  trader  and  Mr.  Shelby  were  seated  together  in  the  din¬ 
ing  room  aforenamed,  at  a  table  covered  with  papers  and 
writing  utensils. 

Mr.  Shelby  was  busy  in  counting  some  bundles  of  bills, 
which,  as  they  were  counted,  he  pushed  over  to  the  trader, 
who  counted  them  likewise. 

“  All  fair,”  said  the  trader;  “  and  now  for  signing  these 
yer.” 

Mr.  Shelby  hastily  drew  the  bills  of  sale  toward  him,  and 
signed  them,  like  a  man  that  hurries  over  some  disagreeable 
business,  and  then  pushed  them  over  with  the  money.  Haley 
produced  from  a  well-worn  valise  a  parchment,  which,  after 
looking  over  it  a  moment,  he  handed  to  Mr.  Shelby,  who  took 
it  with  a  gesture  of  suppressed  eagerness. 

“  Wal,  now,  the  thing's  done!  ”  said  the  trader,  getting  up* 

“  It's  done !  ”  said  Mr.  Shelby,  in  a  musing  tone;  and, 
fetching  a  long  breath,  he  repeated,  “It’s  done!” 

“  Yer  don't  seem  to  feel  much  pleased  with  it,  'pears  to 
me,”  said  the  trader. 

“  Haley,”  said  Mr.  Shelby,  “  I  hope  you'll  remember  that 
von  promised,  on  your  honor,  you  wouldn't  sell  Tom  without 
knowing  what  sort  of  hands  he's  going  into.” 

“  Why,  you've  just  done  it,  sir,”  said  the  trader. 

"  Circumstances,  you  well  know,  obliged  me,”  said  Shelby 
haughtily, 

“  Wal,  you  know,  they  may  'blige  me,  too/'  said  the  trader* 


%WE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY. 


31 


"Howsomever,  TO  do  the  very  best  I  can  in  gettin’  Tom  a 
good  berth;  as  to  my  treatin’  cn  him  bad,  you  needn’t  be  a 
grain  afeard.  If  there’s  anything  that  I  thank  the  Lord  for, 
it  is  that  I’m  never  noways  cruel.” 

After  the  expositions  which  the  trader  had  previously  given 
of  his  humane  principles,  Mr.  Shelby  did  not  feel  particularly 
reassured  by  these  declarations;  but,  as  they  were  the  best 
comfort  the  case  admitted  of,  he  allowed  the  trader  to  depart 
in  silence,  and  betook  himself  to  a  solitary  cigar. 


CHAPTER  Y. 

SHOWING  THE  FEELINGS  OF  LIVING  PROPERTY  ON  CHANG¬ 
ING  OWNERS. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Shelby  had  retired  to  their  apartment  for 
the  night.  He  was  lounging  in  a  large  easy-ehair,  looking 
over  some  letters  that  had  come  in  the  afternoon  mail,  and 
she  was  standing  before  her  mirror,  brushing  out  the  compli¬ 
cated  braids  and  curls  in  which  Eliza  had  arranged  her  hair; 
for,  noticing  her  pale  cheeks  and  haggard  eyes,  she  had  ex¬ 
cused  her  attendance  that  night,  and  ordered  her  to  bed. 
The  employment,  naturally  enough,  suggested  her  conversa¬ 
tion  with  the  girl  in  the  morning;  and,  turning  to  her  hus¬ 
band,  she  said  carelessly: 

"  By  the  bye,  Arthur,  who  was  that  low-bred  fellow  that 
you  lugged  in  to  our  dinner  table  to-day?  ” 

"  Haley  is  his  name,”  said  Shelby,  turning  himself  rather 
uneasily  in  his  chair,  and  continuing  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  a 
letter. 

"  Haley!  Who  is  he,  and  what  may  be  his  business  here, 
pray?  ” 

"Well,  he’s  a  man  that  I  transacted  some  business  with, 
last  time  I  was  at  Natchez,”  said  Mr  Shelby. 

"And  he  presumed  on  it  to  make  himself  quite  at  home, 
and  call  and  dine  here,  eh?  ” 

"  Why,  I  invited  him;  I  had  some  accounts  with  him,”  said 
Shelby. 

"Is  he  a  negro-trader?”  said  Mrs.  Shelby,  noticing  a  cer^ 
tain  embarrassment  in  her  husband’s  manner. 

"Why,  my  dear,  what  put  that  into  your  head?”  said 
Shelby,  looking  up. 


S2 


UNCLE  tom’s  CABIN  ;  OB, 

a  Nothing, — only  Eliza  came  in  here  after  dinner,  in  a  great 
worry,  crying  and  taking  on,  and  said  you  were  talking  with  a 
trader,  and  that  she  heard  him  make  an  offer  for  her  boy, — 
the  ridiculous  little  goose!  ” 

“ She  did,  hey?”  said  Mr.  Shelby,  returning  to  his  paper, 
which  he  seemed  for  a  few  moments  quite  intent  upon,  not 
perceiving  that  he  was  holding  it  bottom  upward. 

"  It  will  have  to  come  out,”  said  he  mentally;  “  as  well  now 
as  ever.” 

“  I  told  Eliza,”  said  Mrs.  Shelby,  as  she  continued  brushing 
her  hair,  “  that  she  was  a  little  fool  for  her  pains,  and  that 
you  never  had  anything  to  do  with  that  sort  of  person.  Of 
course,  I  knew  you  never  meant  to  sell  any  of  our  people,— 
least  of  all  to  such  a  fellow.” 

“  Well,  Emily,”  said  her  husband,  “  so  I  have  always  felt 
and  said;  but  the  fact  is  that  my  business  lies  so  that  I  cannot 
get  on  without.  I  shall  have  to  sell  some  of  my  hands.” 

“  To  that  creature?  Impossible!  Mr.  Shelby,  you  cannot 
fee  serious.” 

“  I  am  sorry  to  say  that  I  am,”  said  Mr.  Shelby.  “  I’ve 
agreed  to  sell  Tom  ” 

“  What!  our  Tom? — that  good,  faithful  creature!— been 
your  faithful  servant  from  a  boy!  Oh,  Mr.  Shelby!— and  you 
have  promised  him  his  freedom,  too,— you  and  I  have  spoken 
to  him  a  hundred  times  of  it.  Well,  I  can  believe  anything 
now,— I  can  believe  now  that  you  could  sell  little  Harry,  poor 
Eliza’s  only  child!  ”  said  Mrs.  Shelby,  in  a  tone  between  grief 
and  indignation. 

“  Well,  since  you  must  know  all,  it  is  so.  I  have  agreed  to 
sell  Tom  and  Harry  both;  and  I  don’t  know  why  I  am  to  he 
rated,  as  if  I  were  a  monster,  for  doing  what  everyone  does 
every  day.” 

“  But  why,  of  all  others,  choose  these?  ”  said  Mrs.  Shelby. 
u  Why  sell  them,  of  all  on  the  place,  if  you  must  sell  at  all?  ” 

“  Because  they  will  bring  the  highest  sum  of  any— that’s 
why.  I  could  choose  another,  if  you  say  so.  The  fellow 
made  me  a  high  hid  on  Eliza,  if  that  would  suit  you  any  bet¬ 
ter,”  said  Mr.  Shelby. 

“  The  wretch!  ”  said  Mrs.  Shelby  vehemently. 

“  Well,  I  didn’t  listen  to  it  a  moment,— out  of  regard  to 
your  feelings,  I  wouldn’t;  so  give  me  some  credit.” 

u  My  dear,”  said  Mrs.  Shelby,  recollecting  herself,  “  forgive 
me.  1  have  been  hasty.  I  was  surprised  and  entirely  unpre- 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY.  M 

pared  for  this; — but  surely  you  will  allow  me  to  intercede  for 
these  poor  creatures.  Tom  is  a  noble-hearted,  faithful  fel¬ 
low,  if  he  is  black.  I  do  believe,  Mr.  Shelby,  that  if  he  were 
put  to  it,  he  would  lay  down  his  life  for  you.” 

“  I  know  it,— I  dare  say;  but  what’s  the  use  of  all  this?— I 
can’t  help  myself.” 

“Why  not  make  a  pecuniary  sacrifice?  I’m  willing  to 
bear  my  part  of  the  inconvenience1.  Oh,  Mr.  Shelby,  I  have 
tried — tried  most  faithfully,  as  a  Christian  woman  should— to 
do  my  duty  to  these  poor,  simple,  dependent  creatures.  I 
have  cared  for  them,  instructed  them,  watched  over  them,  and 
known  all  their  little  cares  and  joys,  for  years;  and  how  can 
I  ever  hold  up  my  head  again  among  them,  if,  for  the  sake  of 
a  little  paltry  gain,  we  sell  such  a  faithful,  excellent,  confiding 
creature  as  poor  Tom,  and  tear  from  him  in  a  moment  all  we 
have  taught  him  to  love  and  value?  I  have  taught  them  the 
duties  of  the  family,  of  parent  and  child,  and  husband  and 
wife;  and  how  can  I  bear  to  have  this  open  acknowledgment 
that  we  care  for  no  tie,  no  duty,  no  relation,  however  sacred, 
compared  with  money?  I  have  talked  with  Eliza  about  her 
boy, — her  duty  to  him  as  a  Christian  mother,  to  watch  over 
him,  pray  for  him,  and  bring  him  up  in  a  Christian  way;  and 
now  what  can  I  say,  if  you  tear  him  away,  and  sell  him,  soul 
and  body,  to  a  profane  unprincipled  man  just  to  save  a  little 
money?  I  have  told  her  that  one  soul  is  worth  more  than  all 
the  money  in  the  world;  and  how  will  she  believe  me  when 
she  sees  us  turn  round  and  sell  her  child? — sell  hfin,  perhaps 
to  certain  ruin  of  body  and  soul!  ” 

“I’m  sorry  you  feel  so  about  it,  Emily, — indeed  I  am,” 
said  Mr.  Shelby;  “and  I  respect  your  feelings,  too,  though  I 
don’t  pretend  to  share  them  to  their  full  extent;  but  I  tel! 
you  now,  solemnly,  it’s  of  no  use,— I  can’t  help  myself.  I 
didn’t  mean  to  tell  you  this,  Emily;  but  in  plain  words, 
there  is  no  choice  between  selling  these  two  and  selling  every¬ 
thing.  Either  they  must  go,  or  all  must.  Haley  has  come 
into  possession  of  a  mortgage,  which,  if  I  don’t  clear  of!  with 
him  directly,  will  take  everything  before  it.  I’ve  raked,  and 
scraped,  and  burrowed,  and  all  but  begged,— and  the  price 
of  these  two  was  needed  to  make  up  the  balance,  and  %  had  to 
give  them  up.  Haley  fancied  the  child;  he  agreed  to  settle 
the  matter  that  way  and  no  other.  I  was  in  his  power,  and 
had  to  do  it.  If  you  feel  so  to  have  them  sold,  would  it  be 
any  better  to  have  all  sold?  ” 


84 


UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN;  OB. 


Mrs.  Shelby  stood  like  one  stricken.  Finally.,  turning  to 
her  toilet,  she  rested  her  face  in  her  hands,  and  gave  a  sort  of 
groan. 

“  This  is  God’s  curse  on  slavery  ! — a  bitter,  bitter,  most  ac¬ 
cursed  thing!— a  curse  to  the  master  and  a  curse  to  the  slave! 
I  was  a  fool  to  think  I  could  make  anything  good  out  of  such 
a  deadly  evil.  It  is  a  sin  to  hold  a  slave  under  laws  like 
ours,-— I  always  felt  it  was,— I  always  thought  so  when  I  was  a 
girl —I  thought  so  still  more  after  I  joined  the  church;  but 
I  thought  I  could  gild  it  over, — I  thought,  by  kindness,  and 
care,  and  instruction,  I  could  make  the  condition  of  mine  bet¬ 
ter  than  freedom,  fool  that  I  was! ” 

“  Why,  wife,  you  are  getting  to  be  an  abolitionist,  quite.” 

“  Abolitionist!  if  they  knew  all  I  know  about  slavery  they 
might  talk!  We  don’t  need  them  to  tell  us;  you  know  I 
never  thought  that  slavery  was  right, — never  felt  willing  to 
own  slaves.” 

“  Well,  therein  you  differ  from  many  wise  and  pious  men,” 
said  Mr.  Shelby.  “  You  remember  Mr.  B.’s  sermon  the  other 
Sunday? ” 

“  I  don’t  want  to  hear  such  sermons;  I  never  wish  to  hear 
Mr.  B.  in  our  church  again.  Ministers  can’t  help  the  evil, 
perhaps, — can’t  cure  it,  any  more  than  we  can,— but  defend 
it!— it  always  went  against  my  common  sense.  And  I  think 
you  didn’t  think  much  of  that  sermon,  either.” 

“Well,”  said  Shelby,  “I  must  say  these  ministers  some¬ 
times  carry  matters  further  than  we  poor  sinners  would 
exactly  dare  to  do.  We  men  of  the  world  must  wink  pretty 
hard  at  various  things,  and  get  used  to  a  deal  that  isn’t  the 
exact  thing.  But  we  don’t  quite  fancy,  when  women  and 
ministers  come  out  broad  and  square,  and  go  beyond  us  in 
matters  of  either  modesty  or  morals,  that’s  a  fact.  But  now, 
my  dear,  I  trust  you  see  the  necessity  of  the  thing,  and  you 
see  that  I  have  done  the  very  best  that  circumstances  would 
allow.” 

“  Oh,  yes,  yes!  ”  said  Mrs.  Shelby,  hurriedly  and  abstract¬ 
edly  fingering  her  gold  watch,— “  I  haven’t  any  jewelry  of  any 
amount,”  she  added  thoughtfully;  “  but  would  not  this  watch 
do  something?— it  was  an  expensive  one  when  it  was  bought. 
If  I  could  only  at  least  save  Eliza’s  child,  I  would  sacrifice 
anything  I  have.” 

“  I  am  sorry,  very  sorry,  Emily,”  said  Mr.  Shelby.  “  I’m 
sorry  this  takes  hold  of  you  so;  but  it  will  do  no  good.  The 


JLIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY,  8B 

fact  is,  Emily,  the  thing’s  done;  the  bills  of  sale  are  already 
signed  and  in  Haley’s  hands;  and  you  must  be  thankful  it  is 
no  worse.  That  man  has  had  it  in  his  power  to  ruin  us  all, 
— and  now  he  is  fairly  off.  If  you  knew  the  man  as  I  do* 
you’d  think  that  we  had  had  a  narrow  escape.” 

“  Is  he  so  hard,  then?  ” 

“  Why,  not  a  cruel  man,  exactly,  but  a  man  of  leather,— a 
man  alive  to  nothing  but  trade  and  profit,— cool,  and  unhesi¬ 
tating,  and  unrelenting,  as  death  and  the  grave.  He’d  sell 
his  own  mother  at  a  good  percentage,— not  wishing  the  old 
woman  any  harm,  either.” 

“  And  this  wretch  owns  that  good,  faithful  Tom,  and 
Eliza’s  child!  ” 

“  Well,  my  dear,  the  fact  is  that  this  goes  rather  hard  with 
me;  it’s  a  thing  I  hate  to  think  of.  Haley  wants  to  drive 
matters,  and  take  possession  to-morrow.  I’m  going  to  get 
out  my  horse  bright  and  early,  and  be  off.  I  can’t  see  Tom, 
that’s  a  fact;  and  you  had  better  arrange  a  drive  somewhere, 
and  carry  Eliza  off.  Let  the  thing  be  done  when  she  is  out 
of  sight.” 

u  No,  no,”  said  Mrs.  Shelby;  “  I’ll  be  in  no  sense  accom¬ 
plice  or  help  in  this  cruel  business.  I’ll  go  and  see  poor  old 
Tom,  God  help  him  in  his  distress!  They  shall  see,  at  any 
rate,  that  their  mistress  can  feel  for  and  with  them.  As  to 
Eliza,  I  dare  not  think  about  it.  The  Lord  forgive  us! 
What  have  we  done,  that  this  cruel  necessity  should  come 
on  us?  ” 

There  was  one  listener  to  this  conversation  whom  Mr.  and 
Mrs*  Shelby  little  suspected. 

Communicating  with  their  apartment  was  a  large  closet, 
opening  by  a  door  into  the  outer  passage.  When  Mrs.  Shelby 
had  dismissed  Eliza  for  the  night  her  feverish  and  excited 
mind  had  suggested  the  idea  of  this  closet;  and  she  had  hid¬ 
den  herself  there,  and  with  her  ear  pressed  against  the  crack 
of  the  door,  had  lost  not  a  word  of  the  conversation. 

When  the  voices  died  into  silence,  she  rose  and  crept 
stealthily  away.  Pale,  shivering,  with  rigid  features  and 
compressed  lips,  she  looked  an  entirely  altered  being  from  the 
soft  and  timid  creature  she  had  been  hitherto.  She  moved 
cautiously  along  the  entry,  paused  one  moment  at  her  mis¬ 
tress’  door  and  raised  her  hands  in  mute  appeal  to  Heaven, 
and  then  turned  and  glided  into  her  own  room.  It  was  a 
quiet,  neat  apartment,  on  the  same  floor  with  her  mistress. 


S6 


uncle  tom’s  cabin;  ok, 

There  was  the  pleasant  sunny  window,  where  she  had  often 
sat  singing  at  her  sewing;  there,  a  little  case  of  books,  and 
various  little  fancy  articles,  ranged  by  them,  the  gifts  of 
Christmas  holidays;  there  was  her  simple  wardrobe  in  the 
closet  and  in  the  drawers:— here  was,  in  short,  her  home;  and, 
on  the  whole,  a  happy  one  it  had  been  to  her.  But  there,  on 
the  bed,  lay  her  slumbering  boy,  his  long  curls  falling  negli¬ 
gently  around  his  unconscious  face,  his  rosy  mouth  half  open, 
his  little  fat  hands  thrown  out  over  the  bedclothes,  and  a 
smile  spread  like  a  sunbeam  over  his  whole  face. 

“Poor  boy!  poor  fellow!”  said  Eliza;  “they  have  sold 
you!  but  your  mother  will  save  you  yet!  ” 

No  tear  dropped  over  that  pillow;  in  such  straits  as  these 
the  heart  has  no  tears  to  give, — it  drops  only  blood,  bleeding 
itself  away  in  silence.  She  took  a  piece  of  paper  and  a 
pencil,  and  wrote  hastily: 

“  Oh,  missis!  dear  missis!  don’t  think  me  ungrateful, — 
don’t  think  hard  of  me,  anyway,— I  heard  all  you  and  mas¬ 
ter  said  to-night.  I  am  going  to  try  to  save  my  boy, — you 
will  not  blame  me!  God  bless  and  reward  you  for  all  your 
kindness! 99 

Hastily  folding  and  directing  this,  she  went  to  a  drawer 
and  made  up  a  little  package  of  clothing  for  her  boy,  which 
she  tied  with  a  handkerchief  firmly  round  her  waist;  and,  so 
fond  is  a  mother’s  remembrance  that,  even  in  the  terrors  of 
that  hour,  she  did  not  forget  to  put  in  the  little  package  one 
or  two  of  his  favorite  toys,  reserving  a  gayly  painted  parrot 
to  amuse  him,  when  she  should  be  called  on  to  awaken  him. 
It  was  some  trouble  to  arouse  the  little  sleeper;  but  after 
some  effort  he  sat  up,  and  was  playing  with  his  bird,  while  his 
mother  was  putting  on  her  bonnet  and  shawl. 

“  Where  are  you  going,  mother?  ”  said  he,  as  she  drew 
near  the  bed  with  his  little  coat  and  cap. 

His  mother  drew  near,  and  looked  so  earnestly  into  his 
eyes  that  he  at  once  divined  that  something  unusual  was  the 
matter. 

“  Hush,  Harry!  ”  she  said;  “  mustn’t  speak  loud,  or  they 
will  hear  us.  A  wicked  man  was  coming  to  take  little  Harry 
away  from  his  mother,  and  carry  him  ’way  off  in  the  dark; 
but  mother  won’t  let  him,— she’s  going  to  put  on  her  little 
boy’s  cap  and  coat,  and  run  off  with  him,  so  the  ugly  man 
can’t  catch  him” 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY. 


3J 

Saying  these  words,  she  had  tied  and  buttoned  on  the 
child’s  simple  outfit,  and,  taking  him  in  her  arms,  she  whis¬ 
pered  to  him  to  be  very  still;  and,  opening  a  door  in  her 
room  which  led  into  the  outer  veranda,  she  glided  noiselessly 

out. 

It  was  a  sparkling,  frosty,  starlight  night,  and  the  mother 
wrapped  the  shawl  close  round  her  child,  as,  perfectly  quiet 
with  vague  terror,  he  clung  round  her  neck. 

Old  Bruno,  a  great  Newfoundland  who  slept  at  the  end  of 
the  porch,  rose  with  a  low  growl  as  she  came  near.  She 
gently  spoke  his  name,  and  the  animal,  an  old  pet  and  play¬ 
mate  of  hers,  instantly,  wrgging  his  tail,  prepared  to  follow 
her,  though  apparently  revolving  much,  in  his  simple  dog’s 
head,  what  such  an  indiscreet  midnight  promenade  might 
mean.  Some  dim  ideas  of  imprudence  or  impropriety  in  the 
measure  seemed  to  embarrass  him  considerably;  for  he  often 
stopped  as  Eliza  glided  forward,  and  looked  wistfully  first  at 
her  and  then  at  the  house,  and  then,  as  if  reassured  by  reflec¬ 
tion,  he  pattered  along  after  her  again.  A  few  minutes 
brought  them  to  the  window  of  Uncle  Tom’s  cottage,  and 
Eliza,  stopping,  tapped  lightly  on  the  -window-pane. 

The  prayer-meeting  at  Uncle  Tom’s  had,  in  the  order  of 
hymn-singing,  been  protracted  to  a  very  late  hour;  and,  as 
Uncle  Tom  had  indulged  himself  in  a  few  lengthy  solos  after¬ 
ward,  the  consequence  was  that,  although  it  was  now  be¬ 
tween  twelve  and  one  o’clock,  he  and  his  worthy  helpmeet 
were  not  yet  asleep. 

“  Good  Lord!  what’s  that?”  said  Aunt  Chloe,  starting  up 
and  hastily  drawing  the  curtain.  “  My  sakes  alive,  if  it  an’t 
Lizy!  Get  on  your  clothes,  old  man,  quick!— there’s  old 
Bruno,  too,  a-pawin’  round;  what  on  airth!  I’m  gwine  to 
open  the  door.” 

And,  suiting  the  action  to  the  word,  the  door  flew  open, 
and  the  light  of  the  tallow  candle,  which  Tom  had  hastily 
lighted,  fell  on  the  haggard  face  and  dark,  wild  eyes  of  the 
fugitive. 

“  Lord  bless  you!— I’m  skeered  to  look  at  ye,  Lizy!  Are 
ye  tuck  sick,  or  what’s  come  over  ye?  ” 

“  I’m  running  away,— Uncle  Tom  and  Aunt  Chloe,— car¬ 
rying  off  my  child,— master  sold  him!  ” 

“ Sold  him?”  echoed  both,  lifting  up  their  hands  in 
dismay. 

“  Yea,  sold  him!  ”  said  Eliza  firmly*  “  I  crept  into  the 


38  UNCLE  tom’s  cabin  ;  ob5 

closet  by  mistress5  door  to-night,  and  I  heard  master  tell 
missis  that  he  had  sold  my  Harry,  and  you,  Uncle  Tom,  both, 
to  a  trader;  and  that  he  was  going  off  this  morning  on  his 
horse,  and  that  the  man  was  to  take  possession  to-day.” 

Tom  had  stood,  during  this  speech,  with  his  hands  raised, 
a?  rl  his  eyes  dilated,  like  a  man  in  a  dream.  Slowly  and 
gradually,  as  its  meaning  came  over  him,  he  collapsed,  rather 
than  seated  himself,  on  his  old  chair,  and  sunk  his  head  down 
upon  his  knees. 

“  The  good  Lord  have  pity  on  us!  ”  said  Aunt  Chloe. 
“  Oh,  it  don’t  seem  as  if  it  was  true!  What  has  he  done,  that 
mas’r  should  sell  him?” 

“  He  hasn’t  done  anything,— it  isn’t  for  that.  Master 
don’t  want  to  sell:  and  missis,— she’s  always  good.  I  heard 
her  plead  and  beg  for  us:  but  he  told  her  ’twas  no  use;  that 
he  was  in  this  man’s  debt,  and  that  this  man  had  got  the 
power  over  him;  and  that  if  he  didn’t  pay  him  off  clear,  it 
would  end  in  his  having  to  sell  the  place  and  all  the  people, 
and  move  off.  Yes,  I  heard  him  say  there  was  no  choice  be¬ 
tween  selling  these  two  and  selling  all,  the  man  was  driving 
him  so  hard.  Master  said  he  was  sorry;  but  oh,  missis, — you 
ought  to  have  heard  her  talk!  If  she  an’t  a  Christian  and  an 
angel,  there  never  was  one.  I’m  a  wicked  girl  to  leave  her 
so;  but,  then,  I  can’t  help  it.  She  said  herself,  one  soul  was 
worth  more  than  the  world;  and  this  boy  has  a  soul,  and  if  I 
let  him  be  carried  off,  who  knows  what  ’ll  become  of  it?  It 
must  be  right;  but  if  it  an’t  right,  the  Lord  forgive  me,  for  I 
can’t  help  doing  it!  ” 

“Well,  old  man!”  said  Aunt  Chloe,  “wThy  don’t  you  go, 
too?  Will  you  wait  to  be  toted  down  river,  where  they  kill 
niggers  with  hard  work  and  starving?  I’d  a  heap  rather  die 
than  go  there,  any  day!  There’s  time  for  ye,— be  off  with 
Li^y— you’ve  got  a  pass  to  come  and  go  any  time.  Come, 
bustle  up,  and  I’ll  get  your  things  together.” 

Tom  slowly  raised  his  head,  and  looked  sorrowfully  but 
quietly  around,  and  said, — 

“  No,  no,— I  an’t  going.  Let  Eliza  go, — it’s  her  right!  I 
wouldn’t  be  the  one  to  say  no, — ’tan’t  in  natur ’  for  her  to 
stay;  but  you  heard  what  she  said!  If  I  must  be  sold,  or  all 
the  people  on  the  place,  and  everything  go  to  rack,  why,  let 
me  be  sold.  I  s’pose  I  can  b’ar  it  as  well  as  any  on  ’em,”  he 
added,  while  something  like  a  sob  and  a  sigh  shook  his  br^ad, 
rough  chest  convulsively.  “  Mas’r  always  found  me  on  the 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY.. 


80 


spot,— he  always  will.  I  never  have  broke  trust,  nor  used 
my  pass  noways  contrary  to  my  word,  and  I  never  will.  It’s 
better  for  me  alone  to  go  than  to  break  up  the  place  and  sell 
all.  Mas’r  an’t  to  blame,  Chloe,  and  he’ll  take  care  of  you 
and  the  poor - ” 

Here  he  turned  to  the  rough  trundle-bed  full  of  little 
woolly  heads,  and  bioke  fairly  down.  He  leaned  over  the 
back  of  the  chair,  and  covered  his  face  with  his  large  hands. 
Sobs,  heavy,  hoarse,  and  loud,  shook  the  chair,  and  great  tears 
fell  through  his  fingers  on  the  floor:  just  such  tears,  sir,  as 
you  dropped  into  the  coffin  where  lay  your  first-born  son; 
such  tears,  woman,  as  you  shed  when  you  heard  the  cries  of 
your  dying  babe.  For,  sir,  he  was  a  man,— and  you  are  but 
another  man.  And,  woman,  though  dressed  in  silk  and 
jewels,  you  are  but  a  woman,  and,  in  life’s  great  straits  and 
mighty  griefs,  ye  feel  but  one  sorrow! 

“  And  now,”  said  Eliza,  as  she  stood  in  the  door,  “  I  saw 
husband  only  this  afternoon,  and  I  little  knew  then  what  was 
to  come.  They  have  pushed  him  to  the  very  last  standing- 
place,  and  he  told  me,  to-day,  that  he  was  going  to  run  away. 
Ho  try,  if  you  can,  to  get  word  to  him.  Tell  him  how  I 
went,  and  why  I  went;  and  tell  him  I’m  going  to  try  and  find 
Canada.  You  must  give  my  love  to  him,  and  tell  him,  if  I 
never  see  him  again,” — she  turned  awav,  and  stood  with  her 
back  to  them  for  a  moment,  and  then  added,  in  a  husky  voice-, 
“  tell  him  to  be  as  good  as  he  can,  and  try  and  meet  me  in  the 
kingdom  of  heaven. 

“  Call  Bruno  in  there,”  she  added.  “  Shut  the  door  on 
him,  poor  beast!  He  mustn’t  go  with  me!  ” 

A  few  last  words  and  tears,  a  few  simple  adieus  and  bless¬ 
ings,  and,  clasping  her  wondering  and  affrighted  child  in  her 
arms,  she  glided  noiselessly  away. 

CHAPTER  VL 

DISCOVERY. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Shelby,  after  their  protracted  discussion  of 
the  night  before,  did  not  readily  sink  to  repose,  and,  in  con¬ 
sequence,  slept  somewhat  later  than  usual  the  ensuing 
morning. 

“  I  wonder  what  keeps  Eliza,”  said  Mrs.  Shelby,  after  giv¬ 
ing  her  bell  repeated  pulls  to  no  purpose. 


40 


UNCLE  TOM1®  CABIN;  03, 

Mr.  Shelby  was  standing  before  his  dressing-glass,  sharpen¬ 
ing  his  razor;  and  just  then  the  door  opened,  and  a  colored 
boy  entered,  with  his  shaving-water. 

“  Andy,”  said  his  mistress,  “  step  to  Eliza’s  door,  and  tell 
her  I  have  rung  for  her  three  times.  Poor  thing!”  she 
added  to  herself,  with  a  sigh. 

Andy  soon  returned,  with  eyes  very  wide  in  astonishment. 

“  Lor,  missis!  Lizy’s  drawers  is  all  open,  and  her  things 
all  lying  every  which  way;  and  I  believe  she’s  just  done 
dared  out!  ” 

The  truth  flashed  upon  Mr.  Shelby  and  his  wife  at  the 
same  moment.  He  exclaimed: 

“  Then  she  suspected  it,  and  she’s  off !  ” 

“  The  Lord  be  thanked!  ”  said  Mrs.  Shelby.  “  I  trust 
she  is.” 

“  Wife,  you  talk  like  a  fool!  Really,  it  will  be  something 
pretty  awkward  for  me,  if  she  is.  Haley  saw  that  I  hesi¬ 
tated  about  selling  this  child,  and  he’ll  think  I  connived  at  it, 
to  get  him  out  of  the  way.  It  touches  my  honor!  ”  And 
Mr.  Shelby  left  the  room  hastily. 

There  was  great  running  and  ejaculating,  and  opening  and 
shutting  of  doors,  and  appearance  of  faces  in  all  shades  of 
color  in  different  places,  for  about  a  quarter  of  an  hour.  One 
person  only,  who  might  have  shed  some  light  on  the  matter, 
was  entirely  silent,  and  that  was  the  head  cook,  Aunt  Chloe. 
Silently,  and  with  a  heavy  cloud  settled  down  over  her  once 
joyous  face,  she  proceeded  making  out  her  breakfast  biscuits, 
as  if  she  heard  and  saw  nothing  of  the  excitement  around  her. 

Very  soon,  about  a  dozen  young  imps  were  roosting,  like 
so  many  crows,  on  the  veranda  railings,  each  one  determined 
to  be  the  first  one  to  apprise  the  strange  mas’r  of  his  ill  luck. 

“  He’ll  be  rael  mad,  I’ll  be  bound,”  said  Andy. 

“  Won’t  he  swar!  ”  said  little  black  Jake. 

“  Yes,  for  he  does  swar,”  said  woolly-headed  Mandy.  "  I 
hearn  him  yesterday,  at  dinner.  I  hearn  all  about  it  then, 
’cause  I  got  into  the  closet  where  missis  keeps  the  great  jugs, 
and  I  hearn  every  word.”  And  Mandy,  who  had  never  in  her 
life  thought  of  the  meaning  of  a  word  she  had  heard,  more 
than  a  black  cat,  now  took  airs  of  superior  wisdom,  and 
strutted  about,  forgetting  to  state  that,  though  actually  coiled 
up  among  the  jugs  at  the  time  specified,  she  had  been  fast 
asleep  all  the  time. 

’When,  at  last,  Haley  appeared*  booted  and  spurred,  lie  was 


LIFE  AMO  NO  THE  LOWLY.  41 

fluted  "with  the  bad  tidings  on  every  hand.  The  young 
iiiipLon  the  veranda  were  not  disappointed  in  their  hope  of 
hearing  him  “  swar,”  which  he  did  with  a  fluency  and  fer¬ 
vency  which  delighted  them  all  amazingly,  as  they  ducked 
and  dodged  hither  and  thither,  to  be  out  of  the  reach  of  his 
riding-whip;  and,  all  whooping  of!  together,  they  tumbled,  in 
a  pile  of  immeasurable  giggle,  on  the  withered  turf  raider  the 
veranda,  where  they  kicked  up  their  heels  and  shouted  to 
their  full  satisfaction. 

“  If  I  had  the  little  devils!  ”  muttered  Haley,  between  his 
teeth. 

“  But  you  han’t  got  ’em,  though!  ”  said  Andy,  with  a  tri¬ 
umphant  flourish,  and  making  a  string  of  indescribable 
mouths  at  the  unfortunate  trader’s  back,  when  he  was  fairly 
beyond  hearing. 

“  I  say  now,  Shelby,  this  yer’s  a  most  eztr’or’nary  busi¬ 
ness!  ”  said  Haley,  as  he  abruptly  entered  the  parlor.  “  It 
seems  that  gal’s  off,  with  her  young  un.” 

“  Mr.  Haley,  Mrs.  Shelby  is  present,”  said  Mr.  Shelby. 

“  I  beg  pardon,  ma’am,”  said  Haley,  bowing  slightly,  with 
a  still  lowering  brow;  “  but  still  I  say,  as  I  said  before,  this 
yer’s  a  singular  report.  Is  it  true,  sir?  ” 

“  Sir,”  said  Mr.  Shelby,  “  if  you  wish  to  communicate  with 
me,  you  must  observe  something  of  the  decorum  of  a  gentle¬ 
man.  Andy,  take  Mr.  Haley’s  hat  and  riding-whip.  Take 
a  seat,  sir.  Yes,  sir;  I  regret  to  say  that  the  young  woman, 
excited  by  overhearing,  or  having  reported  to  her,  something 
of  this  business,  has  taken  her  child  in  the  night,  and  made 
off.” 

“  I  did  expect  fair  dealing  in  this  matter,  I  confess,”  said 
Haley. 

“  Well,  sir,”  said  Mr.  Shelby,  turning  sharply  round  upon 
him,  “what  am  I  to  understand  by  that  remark?  If  any 
man  calls  my  honor  in  question,  I  have  but  one  answer  for 
him.” 

The  trader  cowered  at  this,  and  in  a  somewhat  lower  tone 
said  that  “  it  was  plaguy  hard  on  a  fellow,  that  had  made  a 
fair  bargain,  to  be  gulled  that  way.” 

“Mr.  Haley,”  said  Mr.  Shelby,  “if  I  did  not  think  you 
had  some  cause  for  disappointment,  I  should  not  have  borne 
from  you  the  rude  and  unceremonious  style  of  your  entrance 
into  my  parlor  this  morning.  I  say  thus  much,  however, 
since  appearances  call  for  it,  that  I  shall  allow  of  no  msinuar 


43  uncle  tom’s  cabin  ;  or, 

tions  cast  upon  me,  as  if  I  were  at  all  partner  to  any  irnife 
ness  in  this  matter.  Moreover,  I  shall  feel  hound  to  give 
you  every  assistance,  in  the  use  of  horses,  servants,  etc.,  in  the 
recovery  of  your  property.  So,  in  short,  Haley,”  said  he 
suddenly,  dropping  from  the  tone  of  dignified  coolness  to  his 
ordinary  one  of  easy  frankness,  “  the  best  way  for  you  is  to 
keep  good-natured  and  eat  some  breakfast,  and  we  will  then 
see  what  is  to  be  done.” 

Mrs.  Shelby  now  rese,  and  said  her  engagements  would 
prevent  her  being  at  the  breakfast-table  that  morning;  and, 
deputing  a  very  respectable  mulatto  woman  to  attend  to  the 
gentlemen’s  coffee  at  the  sideboard,  she  left  the  room. 

“  Old  lady  don’t  like  your  humble  servant,  over  and 
above,”  said  Haley,  with  an  uneasy  effort  to  be  very  familiar. 

“  I  am  not  accustomed  to  hear  my  wife  spoken  of  with 
such  freedom,”  said  Mr.  Shelby  dryly. 

“  Beg  pardon;  of  course,  only  a  joke,  you  know,”  said 
Haley,  forcing  a  laugh. 

“  Some  jokes  are  less  agreeable  than  others,”  rejoined 
Shelby. 

“  Devilish  free,  now  I’ve  signed  those  papers,  cuss  him!  ” 
muttered  Haley  to  himself;  “  quite  grand,  since  yesterday!” 

Never  did  fall  of  any  prime  minister  at  court  occasion 
wider  surges  of  sensation  than  the  report  of  Tom’s  fate 
among  his  compeers  on  the  place.  It  was  the  topic  in  every 
mouth,  everywhere;  and  nothing  was  done  in  the  house  or 
in  the  field,  but  to  discuss  its  probable  results.  Eliza’s  flight 
—an  unprecedented  event  on  the  place— was  also  a  great 
accessory  in  stimulating  the  general  excitement. 

Black  Sam,  as  he  was  commonly  called,  from  his  being 
about  three  shades  blacker  than  any  other  son  of  ebony  on 
the  place,  was  revolving  the  matter  profoundly  in  all  its 
phases  and  bearings,  with  a  comprehensiveness  of  vision  and 
a  strict  lookout  to  his  own  personal  well-being  that  would 
have  done  credit  to  any  white  patriot  in  Washington. 

“  It’s  an  ill  wind  dat  blows  nowhar  —  dat  ar  a  fact,”  said 
Sam  sententiously,  giving  an  additional  hoist  to  his  panta¬ 
loons,  and  adroitly  substituting  a  long  nail  in  place  of  a  miss¬ 
ing  suspender-button,  with  which  effort  of  mechanical  genius 
he  seemed  highly  delighted. 

“  Yes,  it’s  an  ill  wind  blows  nowhar,”  he  repeated.  “Now, 
dar,  Tom’s  down,— wal,  course  dor’s  room  for  some  nigger 


MFB  AMONG  THE  LOWLY. 


48 


to  be  up,— and  why  not  dis  nigger? — dat's  de  idea.  Tom, 
a-ridin'  round  de  country,— boots  blacked, — pass  in  his 
pocket,— all  grand  as  Cuffee, — who  but  he?  Now,  why 
shouldn't  Sam? — dat's  what  I  want  to  know." 

“  Halloo,  Sam,— oh,  Sam!  Mas'r  wants  you  to  cotch  Bill 
and  Jerry,"  said  Andy,  cutting  short  Sam's  soliloquy. 

“Hi!  what's  afoot  now,  young  un?" 

“  Why,  you  don't  know,  I  s'pose,  that  Lizy's  cut  stick,  and 
dared  out,  with  her  young  un?  " 

“You  teach  your  granny!"  said  Sam,  with  iniinite  corn 
tempt;  “knowed  it  a  heap  sight  sooner  than  jou  did;  this 
nigger  an't  so  green,  now!  " 

“Well,  anyhow,  mas'r  wants  Bill  and  Jerry  geared  right 
up;  and  you  and  I's  to  go  with  Mas'r  Haley,  to  look  arter 
her." 

“  Good,  now!  dat's  de  time  o'  day!  "  said  Sam.  “  It's  Sam 
dat's  called  for  in  dese  yer  times.  He's  de  nigger.  See  if  I 
don't  cotch  her,  now;  mas'r  '11  see  what  Sam  can  do!" 

“Ah!  but,  Sam,"  said  Andy,  “you'd  better  think  twice; 
for  missis  don't  want  her  cotch,  and  she'll  be  in  yer  wool." 

“Hi!"  said  Sam,  opening  his  eves.  “How  you  know 
flat?" 

“  Heard  her  say  so,  my  own  self,  dis  blessed  mornin',  when 
I  bring  in  mas'r's  shaving- water.  She  sent  me  to  see  why 
Lizy  didn't  come  to  dress  her;  and  when  I  telled  her  she  was 
off,  she  jest  ris  up,  and  ses  she,  ‘  The  Lord  be  praised ';  and 
mas’r,  lie  seemed  rael  mad,  and  ses  he,  ‘  Wife,  you  talk  like  a 
fool.'  But  Lor!  she’ll  bring  him  to!  I  knows  well  enough 
how  that  '11  be, — it's  ailers  best  to  stand  missis'  side  the  fence* 
now  I  tell  yer." 

Black  Sam,  upon  this,  scratched  his  woolly  pate,  which,  if 
it  did  not  contain  very  profound  wisdom,  still  contained  a 
great  deal  of  a  particular  species  much  in  demand  among 
politicians  of  all  complexions  and  countries,  and  vulgarly 
denominated  “  knowing  which  side  the  bread  is  buttered 
so,  stopping  with  grave  consideration,  he  again  gave  a  hitch 
to  his  pantaloons,  which  was  his  regularly  organized  method 
of  assisting  his  mental  perplexities. 

“  Der  an't  no  sayin'— never— 'bout  no  kind  o'  thing  in  dis 
yer  world,"  ho  said,  at  last. 

Sam  spoke  like  a  philosopher,  emphasizing  this, — as  if  he 
had  had  a  large  experience  in  different  sorts  of  worlds*  and 
therefore  had  come  to  Ms  conclusions  advisedly* 


44  UjDTCLE  tom?s  cabim  ;  ob9 

“  Now,  sartin  I’d  V  said  that  missis  would  V  scoured  Idle 
Varsal  world  after  Lizy,”  added  Sam  thoughtfully. 

“  So  she  would,”  said  Andy;  “  but  can’t  ye  see  through  a 
ladder,  ye  black  nigger?  Missis  don’t  want  dis  yer  Mas’r 
Haley  to  get  Lizy’s  boy;  dat’s  de  go.” 

“  Hi!  ”  said  Sam,  with  an  indescribable  intonation,  known 
only  to  those  who  have  heard  it  among  the  negroes. 

.  “  And  I’ll  tell  yer  more’n  all,”  said  Andy;  “  I  ’spect  you’d 
better  be  making  tracks  for  dem  bosses, — mighty  sudden, 
too,— for  I  hearn  missis  ’quirin’  arter  yer,— so  you’ve  stood 
foolin’  long  enough.” 

Sam,  upon  this  began  to  bestir  himself  in  real  earnest,  and 
after  a  while  appeared,  bearing  down  gloriously  toward  the 
house,  with  Bill  and  Jerry  in  a  full  canter,  and  adroitly 
throwing  himself  off  before  they  had  any  idea  of  stopping,  ha 
brought  them  up  alongside  of  the  horse-post  like  a  tornado. 
Haley’s  horse,  which  was  a  skittish  young  colt,  winced,  and 
bounced,  and  pulled  hard  at  his  halter. 

“  Ho,  ho!”  said  Sam,  “  skeery,  ar  ye?”  and  his  black 
visage  lighted  up  with  a  curious,  mischievous  gleam.  “  I’ll 
fix  ye  now!  ”  said  he. 

There  was  a  large  beech  tree  overshadowing  the  place,  and 
the  small,  sharp,  triangular  beechnuts  lay  scattered  thickly 
on  the  ground.  With  one  of  these  in  his  fingers,  Sam  ap¬ 
proached  the  colt,  stroked  and  patted,  and  seemed  apparently 
busy  in  soothing  his  agitation.  On  pretense  of  adjusting  the 
saddle,  he  adroitly  slipped  under  it  the  sharp  little  nut.  in 
such  manner  that  the  least  weight  brought  upon  the  saddle 
would  annoy  the  nervous  sensibilities  of  the  animal,  with¬ 
out  leaving  any  perceptible  graze  or  wound. 

“  Dar!  ”  he  said,  rolling  his  eyes  with  an  approving  grin; 
“me  fix  ’em!  ” 

At  this  moment  Mrs.  Shelby  appeared  on  the  balcony, 
beckoning  to  him.  Sam  approached  with  as  good  a  determi¬ 
nation  to  pay  court  as  did  ever  suitor  after  a  vacant  place  at 
St.  James’  or  Washington. 

“  Why  have  you  been  loitering  so,  Sam?  I  sent  Andy  to 
tell  you  to  hurry.” 

“  Lord  bless  you.  missis!  ”  said  Sam,  “  horses  won’t  be 
cotched  all  in  a  minute;  they’d  done  dared  out  way  down  to 
the  south  pasture,  and  the  Lord  knows  whar!  ” 

“  Sam,  how  often  must  I  tell  you  not  to  say  ‘  Lord  bless 

you/  and  ‘  The  Lord  knows/  and  such  things?  It’s  wicked.” 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY.  46 

“  Oh,  Lord  bless  my  soul!  I  done  forgot,  missis!  1  won*fe 
say  nothing  of  de  sort  no  more/* 

“  Why,  Sam,  you  just  have  said  it  again/* 

“  Did  I?  Oh,  Lord!  I  mean,— I  didn’t  go  fur  to  say  it” 

“  You  must  be  careful ,  Sam/* 

“Just  let  me  get  my  breath,  missis,  and  1*11  start  fair.  1*11 
be  bery  careful/* 

“  Well,  Sam,  you  are  to  go  with  Mr.  Haley,  to  show  him 
the  road,  and  help  him.  Be  careful  of  the  horses,  Sam;  you 
know  Jerry  was  a  little  lame  last  week;  don't  ride  them  too 
fast." 

Mrs.  Shelby  spoke  the  last  words  with  a  low  voice,  and 
strong  emphasis. 

“Let  dis  child  alone  for  dat!  **  said  Sam,  rolling  up  his 
eyes  with  a  volume  of  meaning.  “  Lord  knows!  Hi!  Didn’t 
say  dat!  **  said  he,  suddenly  catching  his  breath,  with  a 
ludicrous  flourish  of  apprehension,  which  made  his  mistress 
laugh,  spite  of  herself.  “Yes,  missis,  1*11  look  out  for  de 
bosses!  ** 

“  Now,  Andy,”  said  Sam,  returning  to  his  stand  under  the 
beech  tree,  “you  see  1  wouldn’t  be  ’tall  surprised  if  dat  ar 
genTman’s  crittur  should  gib  a  fling  by  and  by,  when  he 
comes  to  be  a-gettin*  up.  You  know,  Andy,  critturs  will  do 
such  things;  ”  and  therewith  Sam  poked  Andy  in  the  side, 
in  a  highly  suggestive  manner. 

“  Hi!  ”  said  Andy,  with  an  air  of  instant  appreciation. 

“  Yes,  you  see,  Andy,  missis  wants  to  make  time — dat  ar’s 
clar  to  der  most  or’nary  ’bserver.  I  jis  make  a  little  for  her. 
Now,  you  see,  get  all  dese  yer  bosses  loose,  caperin’  permiscus 
round  dis  yer  lot  and  down  to  de  wood  dar,  and  I  ’spec  mas’r 
won’t  be  off  in  a  hurry.” 

Andy  grinned. 

“Yer  see,”  said  Sam,  “yer  see,  Andy,  if  any  such  thing 
should  happen  as  that  Mas’r  Haley’s  horse  should  begin  to 
act  contrary,  and  cut  up,  you  and  I  jist  lets  go  of  our’n  to 
help  him,  and  we'll  help  him—  oh,  yes!  ”  And  Sam  and 
Andy  laid  their  heads  back  on  their  shoulders,  and  broke  into 
a  low,  immoderate  laugh,  snapping  their  fingers  and  flourish¬ 
ing  their  heels  with  exquisite  delight. 

At  this  instant  Haley  appeared  on  the  veranda.  Some¬ 
what  mollified  by  certain  cups  of  very  good  coffee,  he  came 
out  smiling  and  talking,  in  tolerably  restored  humor.  Sam 
®nd  Andy,  clawing  for  certain  fragmentary  palm-leaves  whicb 


46 


UNCLE  tom’s  cabin;  OB, 

they  were  in  the  habit  of  considering  as  hats,  flew  to  the 
horse-posts,  to  be  ready  to  “  help  mas’r.” 

Sam’s  palm-leaf  had  been  ingeniously  disentangled  from 
all  pretensions  to  braid,  as  respects  its  brim;  and  the  slivers, 
starting  apart,  and  standing  upright,  gave  it  a  blazing  air  of 
freedom  and  defiance,  quite  equal  to  that  of  any  Fejee  chief; 
while  the  whole  brim  of  Andy’s  being  departed  bodily,  he 
rapped  the  crown  on  his  head  with  a  dexterous  thump^  and 
looked  about  well  pleased,  as  if  to  say,  a  Who  says  I  haven’t 
got  a  hat!  ” 

“  Well,  boys,”  said  Haley,  “  look  alive  now;  we  must  lose 
no  time.” 

“  Not  a  bit  of  him,  mas’r!  ”  said  Sam,  putting  Haley’s  rein 
in  his  hand,  and  holding  his  stirrup,  while  Andy  was  untying 
the  other  two  horses. 

The  instant  Haley  touched  the  saddle  the  mettlesome 
creature  bounded  from  the  earth  with  a  sudden  spring  that 
threw  his  master  sprawling,  some  feet  off,  on  the  soft,  dry 
turf.  Sam,  with  frantic  ejaculations,  made  a  dive  at  the 
reins,  but  only  succeeded  in  brushing  the  blazing  palm-leaf 
aforenamed  into  the  horse’s  eyes,  which  by  no  means  tended 
to  allay  the  confusion  of  his  nerves.  So,  with  great  vehe¬ 
mence,  he  overturned  Sam,  and  giving  two  or  three  contemp¬ 
tuous  snorts,  flourished  his  heels  vigorously  in  the  air,  and 
was  soon  prancing  away  toward  the  lower  end  of  the  lawn, 
followed  by  Bill  and  Jerry,  whom  Andy  had  not  failed  to  let 
loose,  according  to  contract,  speeding  them  off  with  various 
direful  ejaculations.  And  now  ensued  a  miscellaneous  scene 
of  confusion,  ©am  and  Andy  ran  and  shouted, — dogs  barked 
here  and  there,— and  Mike,  Mose,  Mandy,  Fanny,  and  all  the 
smaller  specimens  on  the  place,  both  male  and  female,  raced, 
clapped  hands,  whooped,  and  shouted,  with  outrageous 
officiousness  and  untiring  zeal. 

Haley’s  horse,  which  was  a  white  one,  and  very  fleet  and 
spirited,  appeared  to  enter  into  the  spirit  of  the  scene  with 
great  gusto;  and  having  for  his  coursing  ground  a  lawn  of 
nearly  half  a  mile  in  extent, gently  sloping  down  on  every  side 
into  indefinite  woodland,  he  appeared  to  take  infinite  delight 
in  seeing  how  near  he  could  allow  his  pursuers  to  approach 
him,  and  then,  when  within  a  hand’s  breadth,  whisk  off  with 
a  start  and  a  snort,  like  a  mischievous  beast  as  he  was.  and 
career  far  down  into  some  alley  of  the  wood-lot.  Nothing 
was  further  from  Sam’s  mind  than  to  have  any  one  of  the 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY* 


4f 


troop  taken  until  such  season  as  should  seem  to  him.  most 
befitting, — and  the  exertions  that  he  made  were  certainly 
most  heroic.  Like  the  sword  of  Coeur  de  lion,  which  always 
blazed  in  the  front  and  thickest  of  the  battle,  Sam’s  palm- 
leaf  was  to  be  seen  everywhere  when  there  was  the  least  dan¬ 
ger  that  a  horse  could  be  caught;— there  he  would  bear  down 
full  tilt,  shouting,  “  Now  for  it!  cotch  him!  cotch  nim!  ”  in 
a  way  that  would  set  everything  to  indiscriminate  rout  in  a 
moment 

Haley  ran  up  and  down,  and  cursed  and  swore  and  stamped 
miscellaneously.  Mr.  Shelby  in  vain  tried  to  shout  direc¬ 
tions  from  the  balcony,  and  Mrs.  Shelby  from  her  chamber 
window  alternately  laughed  and  wondered,— not  without 
some  inkling  of  what  lay  at  the  bottom  of  all  this  confusion. 

At  last,  about  twelve  o’clock,  Sam  appeared  triumphant, 
mounted  on  Jerry,  with  Haley’s  horse  by  his  side,  reeking 
with  sweat,  but  with  flashing  eyes  and  dilated  nostrils, 
shov/ing  that  the  spirit  of  freedom  had  not  yet  entirely 
subsided. 

“He’s  cotched!  ”  he  exclaimed  triumphantly.  “  If’t 
hadn’t  been  for  me,  they  might  ’a’  bust  theirselves,  all  on  ’em; 
but  I  cotched  him!  ” 

“You!”  growled  Haley,  in  no  amiable  mood.  “If  it 
hadn’t  been  for  you,  this  never  would  have  happened.” 

“  Lord  bless  us,  mas’r,”  said  Sam,  in  a  tone  of  the  deepest 
concern,  “  and  me  that  has  been  racin’  and  chasin’  till  the 
sweat  jest  pours  off  me!  ” 

“Well,  well!”  said  Haley,  “you’ve  lost  me  near  three 
hours,  with  your  cursed  nonsense.  Now  let’s  be  off,  and 
have  no  more  fooling.” 

“  Why,  mas’r,”  said  Sam,  in  a  deprecating  tone,  “  I  be¬ 
lieve  you  mean  to  kill  us  all  clar,  horses  and  all.  Here  we 
are  all  jest  ready  to  drop  down,  and  the  critturs  all  in  a  reek 
of  sweat.  Why,  mas’r  won’t  think  of  startin’  on  now  till 
after  dinner.  Mas’r’s  boss  wants  rubben’  down;  see  how  he 
splashed  hisself:  and  Jerry  limps  too;  don’t  think  missis 
would  be  willin’  to  have  us  start  dis  yer  way,  nohow.  Lord 
bless  you,  mas’r,  we  can  ketch  up,  if  we  do  stop.  Lizy  never 
was  no  great  of  a  walker.” 

Mrs,  Shelby,  who,  greatly  to  -  her  amusement,  had  over- 
heard  this  conversation  from  the  veranda,  now  resolved  to 
do  her  part.  She  came  forward,  and,  courteously  expressing 
her  concern  for  Haley’s  accident,  pressed  him  to  stay  to  din® 


48  UNCLE  tom’s  cabin  ;  OR, 

ner,  saying  that  the  cook  should  bring  it  on  the  table 

immediately. 

Thus,  all  things  considered,  Haley,  with  rather  an  equiv¬ 
ocal  glance,  proceeded  to  the  parlor,  while  Sam,  rolling  his 
eyes  after  him  with  unutterable  meaning,  proceeded  gravely 
with  the  horses  to  the  stable-yard. 

“ Did  yer  see  him,  Andy?  did  yer  see  him?”  said  Sam, 
when  he  had  got  fairly  beyond  the  shelter  of  the  bam,  and 
fastened  the  horse  to  a  post.  “  Oh,  Lor,  if  it  wam't  as  good 
as  a  meeting  now,  to  see  him  a-dancin'  and  kickin'  and  swarm' 
at  us.  Didn't  I  hear  him?  Swar  away,  ole  fellow  (says  I  to 
myself);  will  yer  have  yer  hoss  now,  or  wait  till  you  cotch 
him?  (says  I).  Lor,  Andy,  I  think  I  can  see  him  now.” 
And  Sam  and  Andy  leaned  up  against  the  barn,  and  laughed 
to  their  hearts'  content. 

“  Yer  oughter  seen  how  mad  he  looked  when  I  brought 
the  hoss  up.  Lor,  he'd  'a'  killed  me,  if  he  durs'  to;  and  there 
I  was  a-standin'  as  innercent  and  as  humble.” 

“  Lor,  1  seed  you,”  said  Andy;  “an't  you  an  old  boss, 
Sam !  ” 

“  Rather  'specie  I  am,”  said  Sam;  “  did  yer  see  missis  up- 
sta'rs  at  the  winder?  1  seed  her  laughin'.” 

“I'm  sure,  I  was  racin'  so,  I  didn't  see  nothing,”  said 
Andy. 

“  Well,  yer  see,”  said  Sam,  proceeding  gravely  to  wash 
down  Haley's  pony,  “  I'se  'quired  what  ye  may  call  a  habit 
o'  ^observation ,  Andy.  It's  a  very  'portant  habit,  Andy,  and 
I  'commend  yer  to  be  cultivatin'  it,  now  yer  young.  Hist  up 
that  hind  foot,  Andy.  Yer  see,  Andy,  it's  bobservation  makes 
all  de  difference  in  niggers.  Didn’t  X  see  which  way  the 
wind  blew  dis  yer  xnornin'?  Didn't  X  see  what  missis  wanted, 
though  she  never  let  on?  Dat  ar's  bobservation,  Andy.  X 
'spects  it's  what  you  may  call  a  faculty.  Faculties  is  different 
in  different  peoples,  but  cultivation  of  'em  goes  a  great  way.” 

“  I  guess  if  X  hadn't  helped  your  bobservation  dis  mornin', 
yer  wouldn't  have  seen  your  way  so  smart,”  said  Andy. 

“  Andy,”  said  Sam,  “  you's  a  promisin'  child,  der  an't  no 
matter  o'  doubt.  T  think  lots  of  yer,  Andy;  and  X  don't  feel 
noways  ashamed  to  take  idees  from  you.  We  oughtenter 
overlook  nobody,  Andy,  cause  the  smartest  on  us  gets  tripped 
up  sometimes.  And  so,  Andy,  let's  go  up  to  the  house  now. 
I'll  be  borin'  missis  '11  give  us  an  uncommon  good  bite,  dis 
yer  time/' 


&IFE  AMONG  THB  LOWLT. 


CHAPTER  VH. 

THE  MOTHER’S  STRUGGLE. 

It  is  impossible  to  conceive  of  a  human  creature  more 
wholly  desolate  and  forlorn  than  Eliza,  when  she  turned  her 
footsteps  from  Uncle  Tom’s  cabin. 

Her  husband’s  sufferings  and  dangers,  and  the  danger  ol 
her  child,  all  blended  in  her  mind  with  a  confused  and  stun¬ 
ning  sense  of  the  risk  she  was  running  in  leaving  the  only 
home  she  had  ever  known,  and  cutting  loose  from  the  protec¬ 
tion  of  a  friend  whom  she  loved  and  revered.  Then  there 
was  the  parting  from  every  familiar  object, — the  place  where 
she  had  grown  up,  the  trees  under  which  she  had  played,  the 
groves  where  she  had  walked  many  an  evening  in  happier 
days,  by  the  side  of  her  young  husband,— everything,  as  it 
lay  in  the  clear,  frosty  starlight,  seemed  to  speak  reproach¬ 
fully  to  her,  and  ask  her  whither  she  could  go  from  a  home 
like  that? 

But  stronger  than  all  was  maternal  love,  wrought  into  a 
paroxysm  of  frenzy  by  the  near  approach  of  a  fearful  danger. 
Her  boy  was  old  enough  to  have  walked  by  her  side,  and,  in 
an  indifferent  case,  she  would  only  have  led  him  by  the  hand; 
but  now  the  bare  thought  of  putting  him  out  of  her  arms 
made  her  shudder,  and  she  strained  him  to  her  bosom  with  a 
convulsive  grasp,  as  she  went  rapidly  forward. 

The  frosty  ground  creaked  beneath  her  feet,  and  she 
trembled  at  the  sound;  every  quaking  leaf  and  fluttering 
shadow  sent  the  blood  backward  to  her  heart,  and  quickened 
her  footsteps.  She  wondered  within  herself  at  the  strength 
that  seemed  to  be  come  upon  her;  for  she  felt  the  weight  of 
her  boy  as  if  it  had  been  a  feather,  and  every  flutter  of  fear 
seemed  to  increase  the  supernatural  power  that  bore  her  on, 
while  from  her  pale  lips  burst  forth,  in  frequent  ejaculations, 
the  prayer  to  a  Friend  above,— a  Lord,  help!  Lord,  save 
me!  ” 

If  it  were  your  Harry,  mother,  or  your  Willie,  that  were 
going  to  be  torn  from  you  by  a  brutal  trader,  to-morrow  morn¬ 
ing,— if  you  had  seen  the  man,  and  heard  that  the  papers  were 
signed  and  delivered,  and  you  had  only  from  twelve  o’clock 
till  morning  to  make  good  your  escape,— how  fast  could  you 
walk?  How  many  miles  could  you  make  in  those  few  brief 


UNCLE  TOM’S  CABIN  ;  03, 


m 

hours,  with  the  darling  at  your  bosom, — the  little  sleepy 
head  on  your  shoulder,— the  small,  soft  arms  trustingly  hold¬ 
ing  on  to  your  neck?  For  the  child  slept.  At  first  the 
novelty  and  alarm  kept  him  waking;  but  his  mother  so  hur¬ 
riedly  repressed  every  breath  or  sound,  and  so  assured  him 
that  if  he  were  only  still  she  would  certainly  save  him,  that 
he  clung  quietly  round  her  neck,  only  asking,  as  he  found 
himself  sinking  to  sleep,— 

“  Mother,  I  don’t  need  to  keep  awake,  do  I?  ” 

“  No,  my  darling;  sleep,  if  you  want  to.” 

“  But,  mother,  if  I  do  get  asleep,  you  won’t  let  him  get 
me?” 

“  No!  so  may  God  help  me!  ”  said  his  mother,  with  a  paler 
cheek  and  a  brighter  light  in  her  large,  dark  eyes. 

“  You’re  sure,  an’t  you,  mother?  ” 

"  Yes,  sure !  ”  said  the  mother,  in  a  voice  that  startled  her¬ 
self;  for  it  seemed  to  her  to  come  from  a  spirit  within,  that 
was  no  part  of  her;  and  the  boy  dropped  his  little  weary  head 
on  her  shoulder,  and  was  soon  asleep.  How  the  touch  of 
those  warm  arms,  and  gentle  breathings  that  came  in  her 
neck,  seemed  to  add  fire  and  spirit  to  her  movements.  It 
seemed  to  her  as  if  strength  poured  into  her  in  electric 
streams,  from  every  gentle  touch  and  movement  of  the  sleep¬ 
ing,  confiding  child.  Sublime  is  the  dominion  of  the  mind 
over  the  body,  that,  for  a  time,  can  make  flesh  and  nerve  im¬ 
pregnable,  and  string  the  sinews  like  steel  so  that  the  weak 
become  so  mighty. 

The  boundaries  of  the  farm,  the  grove,  the  wood-lot,  passed 
by  her  dizzily,  as  she  walked  on;  and  still  she  went,  leaving 
one  familiar  object  after  another,  slacking  not,  pausing  not, 
till  reddening  daylight  found  her  many  a  long  mile  from  all 
traces  of  any  familiar  objects  upon  the  open  highway. 

She  had  often  been,  with  her  mistress,  to  visit  some  con¬ 
nections  in  the  little  village  of  T — — ,  not  far  from  the  Ohio 
Biver,  and  knew  the  road  well.  To  go  thither,  to  escape 
across  the  Ohio  Biver,  were  the  first  hurried  outlines  of 
her  plan  of  escape;  beyond  that  she  could  only  hope  in 
God. 

When  horses  and  vehicles  began  to  move  along  the  high¬ 
way,  with  that  alert  perception  peculiar  to  a  state  of  excite¬ 
ment,  and  which  seems  to  be  a  sort  of  inspiration,  she  became 
aware  that  her  headlong  pace  and  distracted  air  might  bring 
©a  her  remark  and  suspicion.  She  therefore  put  the  boy  out 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY. 


51 


the  ground,  and,  adjusting  her  dress  and  bonnet,  she  walked 
on  at  as  rapid  a  pace  as  she  thought  consistent  with  the 
preservation  of  appearances.  In  her  little  bundle  she  had 
provided  a  store  of  cakes  and  apples,  which  she  used  as  ex¬ 
pedients  for  quickening  the  speed  of  the  child,  rolling  the 
apple  some  yards  before  them,  when  the  boy  would  run  with 
all  his  might  after  it;  and  this  ruse,  often  repeated,  carried 
them  over  many  a  half-mile. 

After  a  while  they  came  to  a  thick  patch  of  woodland, 
through  which  murmured  a  clear  brook.  As  the  child  com¬ 
plained  of  hunger  and  thirst  she  climbed  over  the  fence  with 
him;  and  sitting  down  behind  a  large  rock  which  concealed 
them  from  the  road,  she  gave  him  a  breakfast  out  of  her  little 
package.  The  boy  wondered  and  grieved  that  she  could  not 
eat;  and  when,  putting  his  arms  round  her  neck,  he  tried  to 
wedge  some  of  his  cake  into  her  mouth,  it  seemed  to  her  that 
the  rising  in  her  throat  would  choke  h‘er. 

“  Ho,  no,  Harry  darling!  mother  can’t  eat  till  you  are  safe! 
We  must  go  on, — on,— till  we  come  to  the  river!  ”  And  she 
hurried  again  into  the  road,  and  again  constrained  herself  to 
walk  regularly  and  composedly  forward. 

She  was  many  miles  past  any  neighborhood  where  she  was 
personally  known.  If  she  should  chance  to  meet  any  who 
knew  her,  she  reflected  that  the  vrell-known  kindness  of  the 
family  would  be  of  itself  a  blind  to  suspicion,  as  making  it  an 
unlikely  supposition  that  she  could  be  a  fugitive.  As  she 
was  also  so  white  as  not  to  be  known  as  of  colored  lineage, 
without  a  critical  survey,  and  her  child  was  white  also,  it 
was  much  easier  for  her  to  pass  on  unsuspected. 

On  this  presumption  she  stopped  at  noon  at  a  neat  farm¬ 
house  to  rest  herself  and  buy  some  dinner  for  her  child  and 
self;  for,  as  the  danger  decreased  with  the  distance,  the  super¬ 
natural  tension  of  the  nervous  system  lessened,  and  she  found 
herself  both  weary  and  hungry. 

The  good  woman,  kindly  and  gossiping,  seemed  rather 
pleased  than  otherwise  with  having  somebody  come  in  to  talk 
with;  and  accepted  without  examination  Eliza’s  statement 
that  she  “  was  going  on  a  little  piece,  to  spend  a  week  with 
her  friends/’— all  which  she  hoped  in  her  heart  might  prov@ 
strictly  true. 

An  hour  before  sunset  she  entered  the  village  of  T— - % 
by  the  Ohio  River,  weary  and  footsore  but  still  strong  in 
heart.  Her  first  glance  was  at  the  river*  which  Him 


Jordan,  between  her  and  the  Canaan  of  liberty  on  the  other 

ede. 

It  was  now  early  spring,  and  the  river  was  swollen  and  tur¬ 
bulent;  great  cakes  of  floating  ice  were  swinging  heavily  to 
and  fro  in  the  turbid  waters.  Owing  to  the  peculiar  form  of 
the  shore  on  the  Kentucky  side,  the  land  bending  far  out 
Into  the  water,  the  ice  had  been  lodged  and  detained  in  great 
quantities,  and  the  narrow  channel  which  swept  round  the 
bend  was  full  of  ice,  piled  one  cake  over  another,  thus  form¬ 
ing  a  temporary  barrier  to  the  descending  ice,  which  lodged 
and  formed  a  great,  undulating  raft,  filling  up  the  whole 
river  and  extending  almost  to  the  Kentucky  shore. 

Eliza  stood  for  a  moment  contemplating  this  unfavorable 
aspect  of  things,  which  she  saw  at  once  must  prevent  the 
usual  ferry-boat  from  running,  and  then  turned  into  a  small 
public  house  on  the  bank,  to  make  a  few  inquiries. 

The  hostess,  who  was  busjr  in  various  fizzing  and  stewing 
operations  over  the  fire,  preparatory  to  the  evening  meal, 
stopped,  with  a  fork  in  her  hand,  as  Eliza’s  sweet  and  plaint¬ 
ive  voice  arrested  her. 

“What  is  it?”  she  said. 

“  Isn’t  there  any  ferry  or  boat  that  takes  people  over  to 
B— ,  now?  ”  she  said. 

“No,  indeed!”  said  the  woman;  “the  boats  has  stopped 
running.” 

Eliza’s  look  of  dismay  and  disappointment  struck  the 
woman,  and  she  said  inquiringly: 

“  May  be  you’re  wanting  to  get  over?— anybody  sick?  Ye 
seem  mighty  anxious?  ” 

“  I’ve  got  a  child  that’s  very  dangerous,”  said  Eliza.  “  1 
never  heard  of  it  till  last  night,  and  I’ve  walked  quite  a  piece 
to-day,  in  hopes  to  get  to  the  ferry.” 

“Well,  now,  that’s  onlucky,”  said  the  woman,  whose 
motherly  sympathies  were  much  aroused;  “I’m  re’ily  eon- 
sarned  for  ye.  Solomon!  ”  she  called,  from  the  window, 
toward  a  small  back  building.  A  man,  in  a  leather  apron 
and  very  dirty  hands,  appeared  at  the  door. 

“  I  say,  Sol,”  said  the  woman,  “  is  that  ar  man  going  to 
tote  them  bar’ls  over  to-night?  ” 

“  He  said  he  should  try,  if’t  was  any  way  prudent,”  said 
the  man. 

“  There’s  a  man  a  piece  down  here,  that’s  going  over  with 
©©me  truck  this  evening,  if  he  dura’  to;  he’ll  be  in  here  to 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY. 


58 

supper  to-night,  so  you’d  better  set  down  and  wait.  That’s 
a  sweet  little  fellow/’  added  the  woman,  offering  him  a 
cake. 

But  the  child,  wholly  exhausted,  cried  with  weariness. 

“  Poor  fellow!  he  isn’t  used  to  walking,  and  I  have  hur¬ 
ried  him  on  so/’  said  Eliza. 

“  Well,  take  him  into  this  room/’  said  the  woman,  opening 
into  a  small  bedroom,  where  stood  a  comfortable  bed.  Eliza 
laid  the  weary  boy  upon  it,  and  held  his  hand  in  hers  till  he 
was  fast  asleep.  For  her  there  was  no  rest.  As  a  fire  in  her 
bones,  the  thought  of  the  pursuer  urged  her  on;  and  she 
gazed  with  longing  eyes  on  the  sullen,  surging  waters  that 
lay  between  her  and  liberty. 

Here  we  must  take  our  leave  of  her  for  the  present  to  fol¬ 
low  the  course  of  her  pursuers. 

Though  Mrs.  Shelby  had  promised  that  the  dinner  should 
be  hurried  on  the  table,  yet  it  was  soon  seen,  as  the  thing 
has  often  been  seen  before,  that  it  required  more  than  one  to 
make  a  bargain.  So,  although  the  order  was  fairly  given 
out  in  Haley’s  hearing,  and  carried  to  Aunt  Chloe  by  at  least 
half  a  dozen  juvenile  messengers,  that  dignitary  only  gave 
certain  very  gruff  snorts  and  tosses  of  her  head,  and  went  on 
with  every  operation  in  an  unusually  leisurely  and  circum¬ 
stantial  manner. 

For  some  singular  reason  an  impression  seemed  to  reign 
among  the  servants  generally  that  missis  v/culd  not  be  par¬ 
ticularly  disobliged  by  delay;  and  it  was  wonderful  what  a 
number  of  counter-accidents  occurred  constantly  to  retard 
the  course  of  things.  One  luckless  wight  contrived  to  upset 
the  gravy;  and  then  gravy  had  to*  be  got  up  de  novo ,  with  due 
care  and  formality.  Aunt  Chloe  watching  and  stirring  with 
dogged  precision,  answering  shortly,  to  all  suggestions  of 
haste,  that  she  “wam’t  a-going  to  have  raw  gravy  on  the 
table,  to  help  nobody’s  catchings.”  One  tumbled  down  with 
the  water,  and  had  to  go  to  the  spring  for  more;  and 
another  precipitated  the  butter  into  the  path  of  events;  and 
there  was  from  time  to  time  giggling  news  brought  into  the 
kitchen  that  “  Mas’r  Haley  was  mighty  oneasy,  and  that  he 
couldn’t  sit  in  his  cheer  noways,  but  was  walkin’  and  stalkin’ 
to  the  winders  and  through  the  porch.” 

“  Sarves  him  right!  ”  said  Aunt  Chloe  indignantly. 
"He’ll  get  was  nor  oneasy,  one  of  these  days,  if  he  do n't 


$4 


tool®  tom’s  cabin;  or, 

mead  his  ways,  Ilis  master  ’ll  be  sending  for  him,  and  then 
see  how  he’ll  look!  ” 

“  He’ll  go  to  torment,  and  no  mistake,”  said  little  Jake. 

/‘He  desarves  it!”  said  Aunt  Chloe  grimly;  “  he’s  broke 
a  many,  many,  many  hearts,— I  tell  ye  all!  ”  she  said,  stop¬ 
ping  with  a  fork  uplifted  in  her  hands;  “  it’s  like  what  Mas’r 
George  reads  in  Kavelations,— souls  a-callin’  unde”  the  altar! 
and  a-eallin’  on  the  Lord  for  vengeance  on  sicli!—  and  by  and 
by  the  Lord  he’ll  hear  ’em,— so  he  will!  ” 

Aunt  Chloe,  who  was  much  revered  in  the  kitchen,  was 
listened  to  with  open  mouth;  and  the  dinner  being  now 
fairly  sent  in,  the  whole  kitchen  was  at  leisure  to  gossip  with 
her  and  to  listen  to  her  remarks. 

“  Sich  ’ll  be  burnt  up  forever,  and  no  mistake;  won’t 
ther?  ”  said  Andy. 

“  I’d  be  glad  to  see  it,  I’ll  be  boun’,”  said  little  Jake. 

“  Chil’en!  ”  said  a  voice  that  made  them  all  start.  It  was 
Uncle  Tom  who  had  come  in,  and  stood  listening  to  the 
conversation  at  the  door. 

“Chil’en!”  he  said,  “I’m  a-f eared  you  don’t  know  what 
ye’re  sayin’.  Forever  is  a  dre’ful  word,  chil’en;  it’s  awful  to 
think  on’t.  You  oughtenter  wish  that  ar  to  any  human 
erittur.” 

“We  wouldn’t  to  anybody  but  the  soul-drivers,”  said 
Andy;  “  nobody  can  help  wishing  it  to  them,  they’s  so  awful 
wicked.” 

“Don’t  natur  herself  kinder  cry  out  on  ’em?”  said  Aunt 
Chloe.  “  Don’t  dey  tear  der  suckin’  baby  right  off  his 
mother’s  breast,  and  sell  him,  and  der  little  chil’en  as  is 
crying  and  holding  on  by  her  clothes,— don’t  dey  pull  ’em 
off  and  sells  ’em?  Don’t  dey  tear  wife  and  husband  apart?” 
said  Aunt  Chloe,  beginning  to  cry,  “  when  it’s  jest  takin’  the 
very  life  on  ’em? — and  all  the  while  does  they  feel  one  bit, — 
don’t  dey  drink  and  smoke,  and  take  it  oncommon  easy! 
Lor,  if  the  devil  don’t  get  them,  what’s  he  good  for?  ”  And 
Aunt  Chloe  covered  her  face  with  her  checked  apron,  and 
began  to  sob  in  good  earnest. 

“Pray  for  them  that  spitefully  use  you,  the  good  book 
says,”  said  Tom. 

“Pray  for  ’em!”  said  Aunt  Chloe;  “Lor,  it’s  too  tought 
I  can’t  pray  for  ’em.” 

“ It’s  natur,  Chloe,  and  naturis  strong,”  said  Tom,  “but 
Hie  Lord’s  grace  is  stronger;  besides,  you  oughter  think  what 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY*  55 

gn  awful  state  a  poor  crittur’s  soul’s  in  that  ’ll  do  them  ar 
things,— you  oughter  thank  God  that  you  an’t  like  him, 
Chloe.  Tm  sure  I’d  rather  be  sold,  ten  thousand  times  over* 
than  to  have  ail  that  ar  poor  crittur’s  got  to  answer  for.” 

“  So’d  I,  a  heap,”  said  Jake.  “  Lor,  shouldn't  we  cotch  itP 
Andy?” 

Andy  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  gave  an  acquiescent 
whistle. 

“  I’m  glad  mas’r  didn’t  go  off  this  morning,  as  he  looked 
to,”  said  Tom;  “  that  ar  hurt  me  more  than  seilin’,  it  did. 
Mebbe  it  might  have  been  natural  for  him,  but  ’twould  have 
come  desp’t  hard  on  me,  as  has  known  him  from  a  baby;  but 
I’ve  seen  mas’r,  and  I  begin  to  feel  sort  o’  reconciled  to  the 
Lord’s  will  now.  Mas’r  couldn’t  help  hisself;  he  did  right, 
but  I’m  feared  things  will  be  kinder  goin’  to  rack,  when  I’m 
gone.  Mas’r  can’t  be  spected  to  be  a-pryin’  round  everywhar, 
as  I’ve  done,  a-keepin’  up  all  the  ends.  The  boys  all  means 
well,  but  they’s  powerful  car’less.  That  ar  troubles  me.” 

The  bell  here  rang,  and  Tom  was  summoned  to  the 
parlor. 

“  Tom,”  said  his  master  kindly,  “  I  want  you  to  notice  that 
I  give  this  gentleman  bonds  to  forfeit  a  thousand  dollars  if 
you  are  not  on  the  spot  when  he  wants  you.  He’s  going  to¬ 
day  to  look  after  his  other  business,  and  you  can  have  the  day 
to  yourself.  Go  anywhere  you  like,  boy.” 

“  Thank  you,  mas’r,”  said  Tom. 

“And  mind  yerself,”  said  the  trader,  “and  don’t  come  it 
over  yer  master  wTith  any  o’  yer  nigger  tricks;  for  I’ll  take 
every  cent  out  of  him,  if  you  an’t  thar.  If  he’d  hear  to  me 
lie  wouldn’t  trust  any  on  ye,— slippery  as  eels!  ” 

“  Mas’r,”  said  Tom, — and  he  stood  very  straight,— “  I  was 
jist  eight  years  old  when  ole  missis  put  you  into  my  arms, 
and  you  wasn’t  a  year  old.  ‘  Thar,’  says  she,  ‘  Tom,  that’s 
to  be  your  young  mas’r;  take  good  care  on  him,’  says  she. 
And  now  I  jist  ask  you,  mas’r,  have  I  broke  word  to  you,  or 
gone  contrary  to  you,  ’specially  since  I  was  a  Christian?  ” 

Mr.  Shelby  was  fairly  overcome,  and  the  tears  rose  to  his 
eyes. 

“  My  good  boy,”  said  he,  “  the  Lord  knows  you  say  but  the 
truth;  and  if  I  was  able  to  help  it,  all  the  world  shouldn’t 
buy  you.” 

“ And  ac  j  am  a  Christian  woman,”  said  Mrs.  Shelby,  . 

u you  shall  be  redeemed  as  soon  as  I  can  anyway  bring  to« 


56 


UNOLB  TOlfs  CABIN;  OBt 


gether  the  means.  Sir,”  she  said  to  Haley,  “take  good 
account  of  whom  you  sell  him  to,  and  let  me  know.” 

“  Lor,  yes,  for  that  matter,”  said  the  trader,  “  I  may  bring 
him  up  in  a  year,  not  much  the  wuss  for  wear,  and  trade  him 
back.” 

“  Pll  trade  with  you  then,  and  make  it  for  your  advantage,” 
said  Mrs.  Shelby. 

Of  course,”  said  the  trader,  “  all’s  equal  with  me;  li’ves 
trade  ?em  up  as  down,  so  I  does  a  good  business.  All  I  want 
is  a  livin’,  you  know,  ma’am;  that’s  all  any  on  us  wants,  I 
s’pose.” 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Shelby  both  felt  annoyed  and  degraded  by 
the  familiar  impudence  of  the  trader,  and  yet  both  saw  the 
absolute  necessity  of  putting  a  constraint  on  their  feelings. 
The  more  hopelessly  sordid  and  insensible  he  appeared,  the 
greater  became  Mrs.  Shelby’s  dread  of  his  succeeding  in  re¬ 
capturing  Eliza  and  her  child,  and  of  course  the  greater  her 
motive  for  detaining  him  by  every  female  artifice.  She 
therefore  graciously  smiled,  assented,  chatted  familiarly,  and 
did  all  she  could  to  make  time  pass  imperceptibly. 

At  two  o’clock  Sam  and  Andy  brought  the  horses  up  to 
the  posts,  apparently  greatly  refreshed  and  invigorated  by 
the  scamper  of  the  morning. 

Sam  was  there  new  oiled  from  dinner,  with  an  abundance 
of  zealous  and  ready  officiousness.  As  Haley  approached,  he 
was  boasting  in  flourishing  style,  to  Andy,  of  the  evident  and 
eminent  success  of  the  operation,  now  that  he  had  “  fairly 
come  to  it.” 

“  Your  master,  I  s’pose,  don’t  keep  no  dogs,”  said  Haley 
thoughtfully,  as  he  prepared  to  mount. 

“  Heaps  on  ’em,”  said  Sam  triumphantly;  “  thar’s  Bruno, 
— he’s  a  roarer!  and,  besides  that,  ’bout  every  nigger  of  us 
keeps  a  pup  of  some  natur  or  uther.” 

“Poll!”  said  Haley,— and  he  said  something  else,  too, 
with  regard  to  the  said  dogs,  at  which  Sam  muttered: 

“I  don’t  see  no  use  cussin’  on  ’em,  noway.” 

“  But  your  master  don’t  keep  no  dogs— I  pretty  much 
know  he  don’t— for  trackin’  out  niggers.” 

Sam  knew  exactly  what  he  meant,  but  he  kept  up  a  look 
of  earnest  and  desperate  simplicity. 

“  Our  dogs  all  smells  round  consid’able  sharp.  I  spect 
they’s  the  kind,  though  they  han’t  never  had  no  practice. 
They’s  far  dogs,  though,  at  most  anything,  if  you’d  get 


LIFE  AMO  NG  THE  LOWLY, 


57 


started.  Here,  Bruno,"  he  called,  whistling  to  the  lumber¬ 
ing  Newfoundland,  who  came  pitching  tumultuously  toward 
him. 

“  You  go  hang! "  said  Haley,  getting  up.  “  Come, 
tumble  up,  now.” 

Sam  tumbled  up  accordingly,  dexterously  contriving  to 
tickle  Andy  as  he  did  so,  which  occasioned  Andy  to  split  out 
into  a  laugh,  greatly  to  Haley’s  indignation,  who  made  a  cut 
at  him  with  his  riding  whip. 

“  I’s  ’stonished  at  yer,  Andy,”  said  Sam,  with  awful 
gravity.  “  This  yer’s  a  seris  bisness,  Andy.  Yer  mustn’t 
be  a-makin’  game.  This  yer  an’t  no  way  to  help  mas’r.” 

“  I  shall  take  the  straight  road  to  the  river,”  said  Haley 
decidedly,  after  they  had  come  to  the  boundaries  of  the 
estate.  “  I  know  the  way  of  all  of  ’em,— they  makes  tracks 
for  the  underground.” 

“  Sartin,”  said  Sam,  “  dat’s  the  idee.  Mas’r  Haley  hits  de 
thing  right  in  de  middle.  Now,  dere’s  two  roads  to  de  river, 
— de  dirt  road  and  der  pike, — which  mas’r  mean  to  take?” 

Andy  looked  up  innocently  at  Sam,  surprised  at  hearing 
this  new  geographical  fact,  but  instantly  confirmed  what  he 
said  by  a  vehement  reiteration. 

“  ’Cause,”  said  Sam,  “  I’d  rather  be  ’dined  to  ’magine  that 
Lizy’d  take  de  dirt  road,  bein’  it’s  de  least  traveled.” 

Haley,  notwithstanding  that  he  was  a  very  old  bird,  and 
naturally  inclined  to  be  suspicious  of  chaff,  was  rather 
brought  up  by  this  view  of  the  case. 

“  If  yer  warn’t  both  on  yer  such  cussed  liars,  now!  ”  he 
said  contemplatively,  as  he  pondered  a  moment. 

The  pensive,  reflective  tone  in  which  this  was  spoken  ap¬ 
peared  to  amuse  Andy  prodigiously,  and  he  drew  a  little  be¬ 
hind,  and  shook  so  as  apparently  to  run  a  great  risk  of  falling 
off  his  horse,  while  Sam’s  face  was  immovably  composed  into 
the  most  doleful  gravity. 

“  Course,”  said  Sam,  “  mas’r  can  do  as  he’d  ruther;  go  de 
straight  road,  if  mas’r  thinks  best,— it’s  all  one  to  us.  Now, 
when  I  study  ’pan  it,  I  think  the  straight  road  de  best, 
deridedly .” 

“She  would  naturally  go  a  lonesome  way,”  said  Haley, 
thinking  aloud,  and  not  minding  Sam’s  remark. 

“Bar  an’t  no  sayin’,”  said  Sam;  “gals  is  peeul’ar;  they 
never  does  nothin’  ye  thinks  they  will;  mose  gen’lly  th© 
contrar.  Gals  is  nat’lly  made  contrary;  and  so,  if  you  thinks 


88  uncle  tom’s  cabin;  or, 

they’ve  gone  one  road,  it  is  sartin  you’d  better  go  t’other,  and 
then  you’ll  be  sure  to  find  ’em.  Now,  my  private  ’pinion  is, 
Lizy  took  der  dirt  road;  so  I  think  we’d  better  take  de 
straight  one.” 

This  profound  generic  view  of  the  female  sex  did  not  seem 
to  dispose  Haley  particularly  to  the  straight  road;  and  he 
announced  decidedly  that  he  should  go  the  other,  and  asked 
Sam  when  they  should  come  to  it. 

“  A  little  piece  ahead,”  said  Sam,  giving  a  wink  to  Andy 
with  the  eye  which  was  on  Andy’s  side  of  the  head;  and  he 
added  gravely,  “  but  I’ve  studded  on  de  matter,  and  I’m  quite 
clar  we  ought  not  to  go  dat  ar  way.  I  nebber  been  over  it 
noways.  It’s  despit  lonesome,  and  we  might  lose  our  way,— 
whar  we’d  come  to,  de  Lord  only  knows.” 

“  Nevertheless,”  said  Haley,  “  I  shall  go  that  way.” 

“  Now  I  think  on’t,  I  think  I  hearn  ’em  tell  that  dat  ar 
road  was  all  fenced  up  and  down  by  der  creek,  and  thar,  an’t 
it,  Andy?  ” 

Andy  wasn’t  certain;  he’d  only  “  beam  tell  ”  about  that 
road,  but  never  been  over  it.  In  short,  he  was  strictly  non¬ 
committal. 

Haley,  accustomed  to  strike  the  balance  of  probabilities 
between  lies  of  greater  or  lesser  magnitude,  thought  that  it 
lay  in  favor  of  the  dirt  road,  aforesaid.  The  mention  of  the 
thing  he  thought  he  perceived  was  involuntary  on  Sam’s  part 
at  first,  and  his  confused  attempts  to  dissuade  him  he  set 
down  to  a  desperate  lying  on  second  thoughts,  as  being  un¬ 
willing  to  implicate  Eliza. 

When,  therefore,  Sam  indicated  the  road,  Haley  plunged 
briskly  into  it,  followed  by  Sam  and  Andy. 

Now,  the  road,  in  fact,  was  an  old  one,  that  had  formerly 
been  a  thoroughfare  to  the  river,  but  abandoned  for  many 
years  after  the  laying  of  the  new  pike.  It  was  open  for  about 
an  hour’s  ride,  and  after  that  it  was  cut  across  by  various 
farms  and  fences.  Sam  knew  this  fact  perfectly  well,— in¬ 
deed,  the  road  had  been  so  long  closed  up  that  Andy  had 
never  heard  of  it.  He  therefore  rode  along  with  an  air  of 
dutiful  submission,  only  groaning  and  vociferating  occasion¬ 
ally  that  ’twas  “  desp’t  rough,  and  bad  for  Jerry’s  foot.” 

“Now,  I  jest  give  yer  warning,”  said  Haley,  “  I  know  yer; 
yer  won’t  get  me  to  turn  off  this  yer  road,  with  all  yer  fussin* 
-—so  you  shet  up!  ” 

“  Mas".;  will  go  his  own  way!  ”  said  Sam,  with  rw-roi  sub» 


MFE  AMONG  TH  J  LOWLl 


59 


mission,  at  the  same  time  winking  most  portentously  to  Andy, 
whose  delight  was  now  very  near  the  explosive  point. 

Sam  was  in  wonderful  spirits, —professed  to  keep  a  very 
brisk  lookout, — at  one  time  exclaiming  that  he  saw  “  a  gal’s' 
bonnet  ”  on  the  top  of  some  distant  eminence,  or  calling  to 
Andy  “  if  thar  wasn’t  Lizy  down  in  the  hollow  ”;  always 
making  these  exclamations  in  some  rough  or  craggy  part  of 
the  road,  where  the  sudden  quickening  of  speed  was  a  special 
inconvenience  to  all  parties  concerned,  and  thus  keeping 
Haley  in  a  state  of  constant  commotion. 

After  riding  about  an  hour  in  this  way,  the  whole  party 
made  a  precipitate  and  tumultuous  descent  into  a  barnyard 
belonging  to  a  large  farming  establishment.  Not  a  soul  was 
in  sight,  all  the  hands  being  employed  in  the  fields;  but,  as 
the  barn  stood  conspicuously  and  plainly  square  across  the 
road,  it  was  evident  that  their  journey  in  that  direction  had 
reached  a  decided  finale. 

“Warn’t  dat  ar  what  I  telled  mas’r?”  said  Sam,  with  an 
air  of  injured  innocence.  f‘  How  does  strange  gentlemen 
spect  to  know  more  about  a  country  dan  de  natives  bora  and 
raised?” 

“  You  rascal!  ”  said  Haley,  “  you  knew  all  about  this.” 

“  Didn’t  I  teli  yer  I  Tcnoiv’d ,  and  yer  wouldn’t  believe  me? 
I  telled  mas’r  ’twas  all  shet  up,  and  fenced  up,  and  I  didn’t 
spect  we  could  get  through,— Andy  heard  me.” 

It  was  all  too  true  to  be  disputed,  and  the  unlucky  man 
had  to  pocket  his  wrath  with  the  best  grace  he  was  able,  and 
all  three  faced  to  the  right  about,  and  took  up  their  line  of 
march  for  the  highway. 

In  consequence  of  all  the  various  delays,  it  was  about  three- 
quarters  of  an  hour  after  Eliza  had  laid  her  child  to  sleep  in 
the  village  tavern  that  the  party  came  riding  into  the  same 
place.  Eliza  was  standing  by  the  window,  looking  out  in  an¬ 
other  direction,  when  Sam’s  quick  eye  caught  a  glimpse  of 
her.  Haley  and  Andy  were  two  yards  behind.  At  this  crisis 
Sam  contrived  to  have  his  hat  blown  off,  and  uttered  a  loud 
and  characteristic  ejaculation,  which  startled  her  at  once; 
she  drew  suddenly  back;  the  whole  train  swept  by  the  win¬ 
dow,  round  to  the  front  door. 

A  thousand  lives  seemed  to  be  concentrated  in  that  one 
moment  to  Eliza.  Her  room  opened  by  a  side  door  to  the 
river.  Rhe  caught  her  child,  and  sprang  down  the  steps 
toward  iu  The  trader  caught  a  full  glimpse  of  her,  just  m 


60 


uncle  tom’s  cabin;  .or* 

she  was  disappearing  down  the  bank;  and  throwing  himself 
from  his  horse,  and  calling  loudly  on  Sam  and  Andy,  he  was 
after  her  like  a  hound  after  a  deer.  In  that  dizzy  moment 
her  feet  to  her  scarce  seemed  to  touch  the  ground,  an  A.  a 
moment  brought  her  to  the  water’s  edge.  Eight  on  behind 
they  came;  and,  nerved  with  strength  such  as  God  gives  only 
to  the  desperate,  with  one  wild  cry  and  flying  leap  sue  vaulted 
sheer  over  the  turbid  current  by  the  shore,  on  to  xhe  raft  of 
ice  beyond.  It  was  a  desperate  leap,— impossible  to  anything 
but  madness  and  despair;  and  Haley,  Sam,  and  Andy 
instinctively  cried  out,  and  lifted  up  their  hands,  as  she 
did  it. 

The  huge  green  fragment  of  ice  on  which  she  alighted 
pitched  and  creaked  as  her  weight  came  on  it,  but  she  stayed 
there  not  a  moment.  With  wild  cries  and  desperate  energy 
she  leaped  to  another  and  still  another  cake; — stumbling, — 
leaping,— slipping; — springing  upward  again!  Her  shoes 
are  gone, — her  stockings  cut  from  her  feet,— while  blood 
marked  every  step;  but  she  saw  nothing,  felt  nothing,  till 
dimly,  as  in  a  dream,  she  saw  the  Ohio  side,  and  a  man  help¬ 
ing  her  up  the  bank. 

“  Yer  a  brave  gal,  now,  whoever  ye  ar! ”  said  the  man, 
with  an  oath. 

Eliza  recognized  the  voice  and  face  of  a  man  who  owned  a 
farm  not  far  from  her  old  home. 

“  Oh,  Mr.  Symmes! — save  me,— do  save  me,— do  hide 
me!”  said  Eliza. 

“Whv,  what’s  this?”  said  the  man.  “Why,  ift  an’t 

Shelby’s  gal!” 

“My  child!— this  boy! — he’d  sold  him!  There  is  his 
mas’r,”  said  she,  pointing  to  the  Kentucky  shore.  “  Oh,  Mr. 
Symmes,  you’ve  got  a  little  boy!  ” 

“  So  I  have,”  said  the  man,  as  he  roughly,  hut  kindly,  drew 
her  up  the  steep  bank.  “  Besides,  you’re  a  right  brave  gal. 
I  like  grit,  wherever  I  see  it!  ” 

When  they  had  gained  the  top  of  the  hank,  the  man 
paused.  “  I’d  be  glad  to  do  something  for  ye,”  said  he; 
“  but  then  there’s  nowhar  I  could  take  ye.  The  best  I  can 
do  is  to  tell  ye  to  go  thar”  said  he,  pointing  to  a  large  white 
house  which  stood  by  itself,  off  the  main  street  of  the  village. 
“  Go  thar;  they’re  kind  folks.  Thar’s  no  kind  o’  danger  but 
they’il  help  you, — they’re  up  to  all  that  sort  o’  thing.” 

“  The  Lord  bless  you!  ”  said  Eliza  earnestly. 


XIFB  AMO ya  THE  LOWLY. 


61 


wTTo  ’casion,  no  ’casion  in  the  world/*  said  the  man. 
*  What  I'Ve  done’s  of  no  ’count/* 

“  And  oh,  surely,  sir,  you  won*t  tell  anyone!  ** 

“  Go  to  thunder,  gal!  What  do  you  take  a  feller  for!  In 
course  not,”  said  the  man.  “  Come,  now,  go  along  like  a 
likely,  sensible  gal,  as  you  are.  You’ve  arnt  your  liberty, 
and  you  shall  have  it,  for  all  me/* 

The  woman  folded  her  child  to  her  bosom,  and  walked 
firmly  and  swiftly  away.  The  man  stood  and  looked  after 
her. 

“  Shelby,  now,  mebbe  won’t  think  this  yer  the  most  neigh¬ 
borly  thing  in  the  world;  but  what’s  a  feller  to  do?  If  he 
catches  one  of  my  gals  in  the  same  fix,  he’s  welcome  to  pay 
back.  Somehow  I  never  could  see  no  kind  o’  crittur 
a-strivin’  and  pantin’,  and  trying  to  clar  theirselves  with  the 
dogs  arter  ’em,  and  go  agin  ’em.  Besides,  I  don’t  see  no 
kind  o’  ’casion  for  me  to  be  hunter  and  catcher  fer  other 
folks,  neither.” 

So  spoke  this  poor  heathenish  Kentuckian,  who  had  not 
been  Instructed  in  hi  constitutional  relations,  and  conse¬ 
quent!}'  war  betrayed  into  acting  in  a  sort  of  Christianized 
manner,  which,  if  he  had  been  better  situated  and  more  en¬ 
lightened,  he  would  not  have  been  left  to  do. 

Haley  had  stood,  a  perfectly  amazed  spectator  of  the  scene, 
till  Eliza  had  disappeared  up  the  bank,  when  he  turned  a 
blank,  inquiring  look  on  Sam  and  Andy. 

“  That  ar  was  a  tol’able  fair  stroke  of  business,”  said  Sam. 
“  The  gal’s  got  seven  devils  in  her,  I  believe!  ”  said  Haley. 
“  How  like  a  wildcat  she  jumped!  ” 

“Wal,  now,”  said  Sam,  scratching  his  head,  “I  hope 
mas’r  ’ll  sense  us  tryin’  dat  ar  road.  Don’t  think  I  feel  spry 
enough  for  dat  ar,  noway!  ”  and  Sam  gave  a  hoarse  chuckle. 
“ You  laugh!  ”  said  the  trader,  with  a  growl. 

“Lord  bless  you,  mas’r,  I  couldn’t  help  it,  now,”  said  Sam, 
giving  way  to  the  long  pent-up  delight  of  his  soul.  “  She 
looked  so  curi’s  a-leapin’  and  springin’ — ice  a-crackin’ — and 
only  to  hear  her, — plump!  ker-chunk!  ker-splash!  Spring! 
Lord!  how  she  goes  it!  ”  and  Sam  and  Andy  laughed  till  thq 
tears  rolled  down  their  cheeks. 

“  I’ll  make  yer  laugh  t’other  side  of  yer  mouths!  ”  said  th© 
trader,  laying  about  their  heads  with  his  riding-whip. 

Both  ducked,  and  ran  shouting  up  the  bank,  and  were  ©ft 
.their  horses  before  he  was  up. 


§8  UNCLE  TOM’S  CABIN  •  0 B, 

“  Good-evening,  mas’r! ”  said  Sam,  with  much  gravity ?  “  X 
bery  much  spect  missis  be  anxious  ’bout  Jerry.  Mas’r  Haley 
won’t  want  us  no  longer.  Missis  wouldn’t  hear  of  our  ridin5 
the  critters  over  Lizy’s  bridge  to-night;  ”  and  with  a  face¬ 
tious  poke  into  Andy’s  ribs,  he  started  off,  foliated  by  the 
latter,  at  full  speed,— their  shouts  of  laughter  coming  faintly 
©n  the  wind. 

CHAPTER  VIIL 
eliza’s  escape. 

Eliza  made  her  desperate  retreat  across  the  river  just  in 
the  dusk  of  twiiight.  The  gray  mist  of  evening,  rising 
slowly  from  the  river,  enveloped  her  as  she  disappeared  up  the 
bank,  and  the  swollen  current  and  floundering  masses  of  ice 
presented  a  hopeless  barrier  between  her  and  her  pursuer. 
Haley  therefore  slowly  and  discontentedly  returned  to  the 
little  tavern  to  ponder  further  what  was  to  \e  done.  The 
woman  opened  to  him  the  door  of  a  little  parlor,  covered  with 
a  rag  carpet,  where  stood  a  table  with  a  very  shining  black 
oil-cloth,  sundry  lank,  high-backed  wood  chairs,  with  some 
plaster  images  in  resplendent  colors  on  the  mantel-sheM, 
above  a  very  dimly  smoking  grate;  a  long  hard-wood  settle 
extended  its  uneasy  length  by  the  chimney,  and  here  Haley 
sat  him  down  to  meditate  on  the  instability  of  human  hopes 
and  happiness  in  general. 

“  What  did  I  want  with  the  little  cuss,  now,”  he  said  to 
himself,  “  that  I  should  have  got  myself  treed  like  a  coon, 
as  I  am,  this  yer  way?”  and  Haley  relieved  himself  by  re¬ 
peating  a  not  very  select  litany  of  imprecations  on  himself, 
which,  though  there  was  the  best  possible  reason  to  consider 
them  as  true,  we  shall,  as  a  matter  of  taste,  omit. 

He  was  startled  by  the  loud  and  dissonant  voice  of  a  man 
who  was  apparently  dismounting  at  the  door.  He  hurried 
to  the  window. 

“By  the  land!  if  this  yer  an’t  the  nearest,  now,  to  what 
I’ve  heard  folks  call  Providence,”  said  Haley.  “  I  do  b’lieve 
that  ar’s  Tom  Loker.” 

Haley  hastened  out.  Standing  by  the  bar,  in  the  corner 
©f  the  room,  was  a  brawny,  muscular  man,  full  six  feet  in 
height,  and  broad  in  proportion.  Pie  was  dressed  in  a  coat 
©f  buffalo  skin*  made  with  the  hair  outward*  which  gave  him 


LIFE  among  the  lowly,  6# 

a  shaggy  and  fierce  appearance,  perfectly  in  keeping  with  the 
whole  car  of  his  physiognomy.  In  the  head  and  face  every 
organ  and  lineament  expressive  of  brutal  and  unhesitating 
violence  was  in  a  state  of  the  highest  possible  development. 
Indeed,  could  our  readers  fancy  a  bulldog  come  unto  man's 
estate,  and  walking  about  in  a  hat  and  coat,  they  would  have 
no  unapt  idea  of  the  general  style  and  effect  cf  his  physique. 
He  was  accompanied  by  a  traveling  companion,  in  many  re¬ 
spects  an  exact  contrast  to  himself.  He  was  short  and  slen¬ 
der,  lithe  and  catlike  in  his  motions,  and  had  a  peering, 
mousing  expression  about  his  keen  black  eyes,  with  which 
every  feature  of  his  face  seemed  sharpened  into  sympathy; 
his  thin,  long  nose  ran  out  as  if  it  was  eager  to  bore  into  the 
nature  of  things  in  general;  his  sleek,  thin  black  hair  was 
stuck  eagerly  forward,  and  all  his  motions  and  evolutions 
expressed  a  dry,  cautious  acuteness.  The  great  big  man 
poured  out  a  big  tumbler  half  full  of  raw  spirits,  and  gulped 
it  down  without  a  word.  The  little  man  stood  tiptoe,  and 
putting  his  head  first  to  one  side  and  then  to  the  other,  and 
snuffing  considerately  in  the  directions  of  the  various  bottles, 
ordered  at  last  a  mint  julep  in  a  thin  and  quavering  voice, 
and  with  an  air  of  great  circumspection.  When  poured  out, 
he  took  it  and  looked  at  it  with  a  sharp,  complacent  air,  like 
a  man  who  thinks  he  has  done  about  the  right  thing  and  hit 
the  nail  on  the  head,  and  proceeded  to-  dispose  of  it  in  short 
and  well-advised  sips. 

“Wal,  now,  who’d  V  thought  this  yer  luck  ?ad  ecme  to 
me?  Why,  Loker,  how  are  ye?”  said  Haley,  coming  for¬ 
ward  and  extending  his  hand  to  the  big  man. 

“  The  devil!”  was  the  civil  reply.  “  What  brought  you 
here,  Haley?  ” 

The  mousing  man,  who  bore  the  name  of  Marks,  instantly 
stopped  his  sipping,  and,  poking  his  head  forward,  looked 
shrewdly  on  the  new  acquaintance,  as  a  cat  sometimes  locks 
at  a  moving  dry  leaf,  or  some  other  possible  object  of  pursuit 

“  1  say,  Tom,  this  yer’s  the  luckiest  thing  in  the  world, 
Vm  in  a  devil  of  a  hobble,  and  you  must  help  me  out.” 

u  Ugh?  aw!  like  enough!  ”  grunted  his  complacent  ac¬ 
quaintance.  “  A  body  may  be  pretty  sure  of  that,  when 
you’re  glad  to  see  ’em;  something  to  be  made  of  ’em.  What*® 
the  blow  now?  ” 

“  Ymfve  got  a  friend  here?”  said  Haley*  looking  doubfe* 
fully  at  Marks;  “  partner*  perhaps?  99 


§4  rNCLis  tom’s  cabin  ;  on, 

4S  Yes,  1  have.  Here,  Marks!  here’s  that  ar  feller  that  I 
was  in  with  in  Natchez.” 

“  Shall  be  pleased  with  his  acquaintance.”  said  Marks, 
thrusting  out  a  long,  thin  hand,  like  a  raven’s  daw.  “  Mr. 
Hal^y,  I  believe?  ” 

“The  same,  sir,”  said  Haley.  “And  now,  gentlemen, 
seem’  as  we’ve  met  so  happily,  I  think  I’ll  stand  up  to  a  small 
matter  of  a  treat  in  this  here  parlor.  So,  now,  old  coon  ” 
said  he  to  the  man  at  the  bar,  “  get  us  hot  water,  and  sugar, 
and  cigars,  and  plenty  of  the  real  stuff ,  and  we’ll  have  a  blow¬ 
out.” 

Behold,  then,  the  candles  lighted,  the  fire  stimulated  to 
the  burning  point  in  the  grate,  and  our  three  worthies  seated 
round  a  table,  well  spread  with  ail  the  accessories  to  good- 
fellowship  enumerated  before. 

Haley  began  a  pathetic  recital  of  his  peculiar  troubles. 
Loker  shut  up  his  mouth,  and  lister  ed  to  him  with  gruff  and 
surly  attention.  Marks,  who  was  anxiously  and  with  much 
fidgeting  compounding  a  tumbler  of  punch  to  his  own  pecu¬ 
liar  taste,  occasionally  looked  up  from  his  employment,  and, 
poking  his  sharp  nose  and  chin  almost  into  Haley’s  face,  gave 
the  most  earnest  heed  to  the  whole  narrative.  The  conclu¬ 
sion  of  it  appeared  to  amuse  him  extremely,  for  he  shook  his 
shoulders  and  sides  in  silence,  and  perked  up  his  thin  lips 
with  an  air  of  great  internal  enjoyment. 

“  So,  then,  ye’re  fairly  sewed  up,  an’t  ye?  ”  he  said.  “  He! 
'he!  he!  It’s  neatly  done,  too.” 

“  This  yer  young-un  business  makes  lots  of  trouble  in  the 
trade,”  said  Haley  dolefully. 

“  If  we  could  get  a  breed  of  gals  that  didn’t  care,  now,  for 
their  young  uns,”  said  Marks;  “  tell  ye,  I  think  ’twould  be 
’bout  the  greatest  mod’m  improvement  I  knows  on/’—and 
Marks  patronized  his  joke  by  a  quiet  introductory  sniggle. 

“  Jess  so,”  said  Haley;  “  I  never  couldn;t  see  into  it;  young 
tins  is  heaps  of  trouble  to  ’em;  one  would  think,  now,  they’d 
be  glad  to  get  clar  on  ’em;  but  they  am’t.  And  the  more 
trouble  a  young  un  is,  and  the  more  good  for  nothing,  as  a 
gen’l  thing,  the  tighter  they  stick  to  ’em.” 

“  Wal,  Mr.  Halev,”  said  Marks,  “  jest  pass  the  hot  water. 
Yes,  sir;  you  say  jest  what  I  feel  and  allers  have.  Now,  I 
bought  a  gal  once,  when  I  was  in  the  trade, — a  tight,  likely 
wench  she  was  too,  and  quite  considerable  smart, — and  she 
bad  a  young  un  that  was  xnis’able  sickly;  it  had  a  crooked 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY. 


m 


Wc^,  or  something  or  other;  and  I  jest  gin’t  away  to  a  man 
that  thought  he’d  take  his  chance  raising  on’t,  being  it  didn’t 
cost  nothin’;— never  thought,  yer  know,  of  the  gal’s  takin’  on 
about  it,— but  Lord,  yer  oughter  seen  how  she  went  on. 
Why,  re’lly,  she  did  seem  to  me  to  vally  the  child  more  ’pause 
*iwa$  sickly  and  cross,  and  plagued  her;  and  she  warn’t  mak¬ 
ing  b’lieve,  neither,— cried  about  it,  she  did,  and  lopped 
round,  as  if  she’d  lost:  every  friend  she  had.  It  re’lly  was 
droll  to  think  on’t.  Lord,  there  an’t  no  end  to  women’s 
notions.” 

“  Wal,  jest  so  with  me,”  said  Haley.  “  Last  summer,  down 
on  Eed  liiver,  I  got  a  gal  traded  off  on  me,  with  a  likely 
lookin’  child  enough,  and  his  eyes  looked  as  bright  as  yourn; 
but,  come  to  look,  I  found  him  stone-blind.  Fact, — he  was 
stone-blind.  Wal,  ye  see,  I  thought  there  wan’t  no  harm  in 
my  jest  passing  him  along,  and  not  sayin’  nothin’;  and  I’d  got 
him  nicely  swapped  off  for  a  keg  o’  whisky;  but  come  to  get 
him  away  from  the  gal,  she  was  jest  like  a  tiger.  So  ’twas 
before  we  started,  and  I  hadn’t  got  my  gang  chained  up;  so 
what  should  she  do  but  ups  on  a  cotton-bale,  like  a  cat, 
ketches  a  knife  from  one  of  the  deck  hands,  and,  I  tell  ye, 
she  made  all  fly  for  a  minit,  till  she  saw  ’twarn’t  no  use;  and 
she  jest  turns  round,  and  pitches  head  first,  young  un  and 
all,  into  the  river— went  down  plump,  and  never  ris.” 

“  Bah!  ”  said  Tom  Loker,  who  had  listened  to  these  stories 
with  ill-repressed  disgust,— “  shii’less,  both  on  ye!  my  gals 
don’t  cut  up  no  such  shines,  I  tell  ye!  ” 

“Indeed!  how  do  you  help  it?”  said  Marks  briskly. 

“Help  it?  why,  I  buys  a  gal,  and  if  she’s  got  a  young  un 
to  be  sold,  I  jest  walks  up  and  puts  my  fist  to  her  face,  and 
says.  c  Look  here,  now,  if  you  give  me  one  word  out  of  your 
head,  I’ll  smash  yer  face  in.  I  won’t  hear  one  word,— not 
the  beginning  of  a  word.’  I  says  to  ’em,  4  This  yer  young 
un’s  mine,  and  not  yourn,  and  you’ve  no  kind  o’  business  with 
it.  I’m  going  to  sell  it,  first  chance;  mind,  you  don’t  cut  up 
none  o’  yer  shines  about  it,  or  I’ll  make  ye  wish  ye’d  never 
been  born.’  I  tell  ye,  they  sees  it  an’t  no  play,  when  I  gets 
hold.  I  makes  ’em  as  whist  as  fishes;  and  if  one  on  ’em  be¬ 
gins  and  gives  a  yelp,  why  ” — and  Mr.  Loker  brought  down 
his  fist  with  a  thump  that  fully  explained  the  hiatus. 

“  That  ar’s  what  ye  may  call  emphasis said  Marks,  poking 
Haley  in  the  side,  and  going  into  another  small  giggle. 

*  An’t  Tom  peculiar?  He!  he!  he!  I  say,  Ter,  X  ’sped 


m 


UHCLJ2  TOM’S  CABIN;  OB, 

you  make  ’em  understand,  for  ail  niggers’  heads  is  woolly. 
They  don’t  never  have  no  doubt  o’  your  meaning,  Tom.  If 
you  an’t  the  devil,  Tom,  you’s  his  twin  brother,  I’ll  say  that 
for  ye!  ” 

Tom  received  the  compliment  with  becoming  modesty,  and 
began  to  look  as  affable  as  was  consistent,  as  John  Bunyan 
says,  “  with  his  doggish  nature.” 

Haley,  who  had  been  imbibing  very  freely  of  the  staple 
of  the  evening,  began  to  feel  a  sensible  elevation  and  enlarge¬ 
ment  of  his  moral  faculties,- — a  phenomenon  not  unusual 
with  gentlemen  of  a  serious  and  reflective  turn  under  similar 
circumstances. 

“  Wal,  now,  Tom,”  he  said,  “  ye  re’lly  is  too  bad,  as  I  al’ays 
have  told  ye;  ye  know,  Tom,  you  and  I  used  to  talk  over  these 
yer  matters  down  in  Natchez,  and  I  used  to  prove  to  ye  that 
we  made  full  as  much,  and  was  as  well  off  for  this  yer  world, 
by  treatin’  on  ’em  well,  besides  keepin’  a  better  chance  for 
cornin’  in  the  kingdom  at  last,  when  wust  comes  to  wust,  and 
thar  an’t  nothing  else  left  to  get,  ye  know.” 

“Bah!”  said  Tom,  “don’t  I  know?— don’t  make  me  too 
sick  with  any  yer  stuff,— my  ctomach  is  a  leetle  riled  now;” 
and  Tom  drank  half  a  glass  of  raw  brandy. 

“I  say,”  said  Haley,  and  leaning  back  in  his  chair  and 
gesturing  impressively.  “  I’ll  say  this  now,  I  al’ays  meant 
to  drive  my  trade  so  as  to  make  money  on’t  fust  and 
foremost,  as  much  as  any  man;  but,  then,  trade  an’t  every¬ 
thing,  and  money  an’t  everything,  ’caise  we’s  all  got  souls. 
I  don’t  care  now  who  hears  me  say  it,- — and  I  think  a  cussed 
sight  on  it,— so  I  may  as  well  come  out  with  it.  I  b’lieve  in 
religion,  and  one  of  these  days,  when  I  have  got  matters  tight 
and  snug,  I  calculates  to  ’tend  to  my  soul  and  them  ar  matters; 
and  so  what’s  the  use  of  doin’  any  more  wickedness  than’s 
re’lly  necessary?— it  don’t  seem  to  me  it’s  ’tall  prudent.” 

“  ’Tend  to  yer  soul!  ”  repeated  Tom  contemptuously;  “  take 
a  bright  lookout  to  find  a  soul  in  you, — save  yourself  any 
care  on  that  score.  If  the  devil  sifts  you  through  a  hair 
sieve,  he  won’t  find  one.” 

“  Why,  Tom,  you’re  cross,”  said  Haley;  “  why  can’t  ye  take 
it  pleasant,  now,  when  a  feller’s  talking  for  your  good?” 

“  Stop  that  ar  jaw  o’  yourn,  there,”  said  Tom  gruffly.  “  I 
can  stand  most  any  talk  o’  yourn  but  your  pious  talk, — that 
kills  me  right  up.  After  all,  what’s  the  odds  between  me  and 
you?  ’Taa’t  that  you  care  one  bit  more,  or  have  a  bit  more 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY, 


m 


seelin’, — it’s  clean,  sheer,  dog  meanness,  wanting  to  cheat  the 
devil,  and  save  your  own  skin;  don’t  I  see  through  it?  And 
your  ‘  gettin’  religion/  as  you  call  it,  arter  all,  is  too  p’isin 
mean  for  any  crittur; — run  up  a  bill  with  the  devil  all  your 
life,  and  then  sneak  out  when  pay  time  comes!  Bah!  ” 

“  Come,  come,  gentlemen,  I  say;  this  isn’t  business/’  said 
Marks.  “  There’s  different  ways,  you  know,  of  looking  at 
all  subjects.  Mr.  Haley  is  a  very  nice  man,  no  doubt,  and 
has  his  own  conscience;  and,  Tom,  you  have  your  ways,  and 
very  good  ones,  too,  Tom;  but  quarreling,  you  know,  won’t 
answer  no  kind  of  purpose.  Let’s  go  to  business.  Now,  Mr. 
Haley,  what  is  it?— you  want  us  to  undertake  to  catch  this 
yer  gal?  ” 

“  The  gal’s  no  matter  of  mine,— she’s  Shelby’s;  it’s  only 
the  boy.  I  was  a  fool  for  buying  the  monkey!  ” 

“  You’re  generally  a  fool!”  said  Tom  gruffly. 

“  Come,  now,  Loker,  none  of  your  huffs,”  said  Marks,  lick¬ 
ing  his  lips;  “  you  see,  Mr.  Haley’s  a-puttin’  us  in  a  way  of  a 
good  job,  I  reckon;  just  hold  still,— these  yer  arrangements 
is  my  forte.  This  yer  sral,  Mr.  Haley,  how  is  she?  what  is 
she?” 

“  Wal!  white  and  handsome,— well  brought  up.  I’d  V 
gin  Shelby  eight  hundred  or  a  thousand  and  then  made  well 
on  her.” 

“  White  and  handsome,— well  brought  up!”  said  Marks, 
his  sharp  eyes,  nose,  and  mouth  a1!  alive  with  enterprise. 
^Look  here,  now,  Loker,  a  beautiful  opening.  We’ll  do  a 
business  here  on  our  own  account;—  are  does  the  eatchin’; 
the  boy,  of  course,  goes  to  Mr.  Haley,— we  takes  the  gal  to 
Orleans  to  speculate  on.  An’t  it  beautiful?” 

Tom,  whose  great  heavy  mouth  had  stood  ajar  during  this 
communication,  now  suddenly  snapped  it  together,  as  a  big 
dog  closes  on  a  piece  of  meat,  and  seemed  to  be  digesting  the 
idea  at  Ms  leisure. 

“Ye  see”  said  Marks  to  Haley,  stirring  his  punch  as  he 
did  so,  “  ye  see,  we  has  justices  convenient  at  all  p’ints  along¬ 
shore,  that  does  up  any  little  jobs  in  our  line  quite  reasonable. 
Tom,  he  does  the  knockin’  down  and  that  ar;  and  I  come  in 
all  dressed  up,— shining  boots,— everything  first  chop,  when 
the  swearm’  ’s  to  be  done.  You  oughter  see,  now/’  said 
Marks,  all  in  a  glow  of  professional  pride,  “  how  I  can  tone  it 
off.  One  day  I’m  Mr.  Twickem,  from  New  Orleans;  Mother 
day,  iusfc  come  from  my  plantation  on  Pearl  River,  where 


m 


use LiS  TOM’S  C/J1S  ;  OB, 


I  works  seven  hundred  niggers;  then,  again,  I  come  out  a 
distant  relation  of  Henry  Ciay,  or  some  old  cock  in  Kentucky 
Talents  is  different,  yer  know.  Now,  Tom’s  a  roarer  when 
there’s  any  thumping  or  fighting  to  be  done;  but  at  lying  he 
an’t  good,  Tom  an’t,— ye  see  it  don’t  come  natural  to  him; 
but.  Lord,  if  thar’s  a  feller  in  the  country  that  can  swear  to 
anything  and  everything,  and  put  in  all  the  circumstances 
and  flourishes  with  a  longer  face,  and  carry’t  through  better’ll 
I  can,  why,  I’d  like  to  see  him,  that’s  all!  I  b’iieve,  in  my 
heart,  I  could  get  along  and  snake  through,  even  if  justices 
were  more  particular  than  they  is.  Sometimes  I  rather  wish 
they  was  more  particular;  ’twould  be  a  heap  more  relishin* 
if  they  was — more  fun,  yer  know.” 

Tom  Loker,  who,  as  w^e  have  made  it  appear,  was  a  man 
of  slow  thoughts  and  movements,  here  interrupted  Marks  by 
bringing  his  heavy  fist  down  on  the  table,  so  as  to  make  all 
ring  again.  “It  ’ll  do!  ”  he  said. 

“  Lord  bless  ye,  Tom,  ye  needn’t  break  all  the  glasses!  ” 
said  Marks;  “  save  your  fist  for  time  o’  need.” 

“  But,  gentlemen,  an’t  I  to  come  in  for  a  share  of  the 
profits?”  said  Hale}^. 

“An’t  it  enough  we  catch  the  boy  for  ye?”  said  Loker. 
“  What  do  ye  want?  ” 

“  Wal,”  said  Haley,  “  if  I  gives  you  the  job,  it’s  worth 
something,  say  ten  per  cent,  on  the  profits,  expenses  paid.” 

“Now,”  said  Loker,  with  a  tremendous  oath,  and  striking 
the  table  with  his  heavy  fist,  “  don’t  I  know  you ,  Dan  Haley? 
Don’t  you  think  to  come  it  over  me!  Suppose  Marks  and  I 
have  taken  up  the  catchin’  trade;  jest  to  ’commodate  gentle¬ 
men  like  you,  and  get  nothin’  for  ourselves?— Not  by  a  long 
chalk!  we’ll  have  the  gal  out  and  out,  and  you  keep  quiet* 
or,  ye  see,  we’ll  have  both;  what’s  to  hinder?  Han’t  you 
show’d  us  the  game?  It’s  as  free  to  us  as  you,  I  hope.  If 
you  or  Shelby  wants  to  chase  us,  look  where  the  partridges 
was  last  year;  if  you  find  them  or  us,  you’re  quite  welcome.” 

“  Oh,  wal,  certainly,  jest  let  it  go  at  that,”  said  Haley* 
alarmed;  “  you  catch  the  hoy  for  the  job;  you  ailers  did  trade 
far  with  me,  Tom,  and  was  up  to  yer  word.” 

“  Ye  know  that,”  said  Tom;  “  I  don’t  pretend  none  of  your 
sniveling  ways,  but  I  won’t  lie  in  my  ’counts  with  the  devil 
himself.  What  I  ses  I’ll  do,  I  will  do, — you  know  that,  Dan 
Haley?” 

Jes  so*  jes  so*— I  said  so*  Tom/  said  Haley,  *  mid  if 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY. 


69 


Only  promise  to  have  the  hoy  for  me  in  a  week,  at  any  point 
you  name,  that’s  all  I  want.” 

“  But  it  an’t  all  I  want,  by  a  long  jump,”  said  Tom.  “  You 
don’t  think  I  did  business  with  you  down  in  Natchez  for 
nothing,  Haley;  I’ve  learnt  to  hold  an  eel,  when  I  catch  him. 
You’ve  got  to  fork  over  fifty  dollars,  fiat  down,  or  this  child 
don’t  start  a  peg.  I  know  yer.” 

“  Why,  when  you  have  a  job  in  hand  which  may  bring  a 
clean  profit  of  somewhere  about  a  thousand  or  sixteen  hun¬ 
dred,  why,  Tom,  you’re  onreasonable,”  said  Haley. 

“  Yes,  and  hasn’t  we  business  booked  for  five  weeks  to 
come, — all  we  can  do?  And  suppose  we  leaves  all,  and  goes 
to  bushwhacking  round  arter  yer  young  un,  and  finally  doesn’t 
catch  the  gal, — and  gals  allers  is  the  devil  to  catch,— what’s 
then?  would  you  pay  us  a  cent, — would  you?  I  think  I  see 
you  a-doing  it, — ugh!  No,  no;  flap  down  your  fifty.  If  we 
we  get  the  job,  and  it  pays,  I’ll  hand  it  back;  if  we  don’t,  it’s 
for  our  trouble, — that’s  far,  an’t  it,  Marks?  ” 

“  Certainly,  certainly,”  said  Marks,  with  a  conciliatory 
tone;  “it’s  only  a  retaining  fee,  you  see, — he!  he!  he! — we 
lawyers,  yer  know.  Wal,  we  must  all  keep  good-natured,— 
keep  easy,  yer  know.  Tom  ’]1  have  the  boy  for  yer,  anywhere 
ye’ll  name;  won’t  ye,  Tom?” 

“  If  I  find  the  young  un.  I’ll  bring  him  on  to  Cincinnati, 
and  leave  him  at  Granny  Belcher’s,  on  the  landing,”  said 
Loker. 

Marks  had  got  from  his  pocket  a  greasy  pocketbook,  and 
taking  a  long  paper  from  thence,  he  sat  down,  and  fixing  his 
keen  black  eyes  on  it,  began  mumbling  its  contents:  “  Barnes, 
Shelby  County,— boy  Jim,— three  hundred  dollars  for  him, 
dead  or  alive. 

“  Edwards,— Dick  and  Lucy,— man  and  wife,  six  hundred 
dollars;  wench  Polly  and  two  children,— six  hundred  for  her 
or  her  head. 

“  I’m  jest  nmnin’  over  our  business  to  see  if  we  can  take 
up  this  yer  handily.  Loker,”  he  said,  after  a  pause,  “we 
must  set  Adams  and  Springer  on  the  track  of  these  yer; 
they’ve  been  booked  some  time.” 

“  They’ll  charge  too  much,”  said  Tom. 

“I’ll  manage  that  ar;  they’s  young  in  the  business,  and 
jnust  spect  to  work  cheap,”  said  Marks,  as  he  continued  to 
read.  “  Ther’s  three  on  ’em  easy  cases,  ’cause  all  you’ve  got 
[to  do  is  to  shoot’m,  or  swear  they  is  shot;  they  couldn’t^  of 


?0 


uncle  tom’s  cabin  ;  oh, 

course,  charge  much  for  that.  Them  other  cases;'*  he  said* 
folding  the  paper,  “  will  bear  puttin’  off  for  a  spell.  So  now 
let’s  come  to  the  particulars.  Now,  Mr.  Haley,  you  saw  thi® 
yer  gal  when  she  landed?  ” 

“  To  be  sure, — plain  as  I  see  you.” 

“  And  a  man  helpin’  her  up  the  bank?”  said  Loker. 

“  To  be  sure,  I  did.” 

“  Most  likely,”  said  Marks,  “  she’s  took  in  somewhere;  but 
where’s  a  question.  Tom,  what  do  you  say?” 

“  We  must  cross  the  river  to-night,  no  mistake,”  said  Tom. 

“  But  there’s  no  boat  about,”  said  Marks.  “  The  ice  is 
running  awfully,  Tom;  an’t  it  dangerous?” 

“  Don’no  nothing  ’bout  that,— only  it’s  got  to  be  done,” 
said  Tom  decidedly. 

“  Dear  me!”  said  Marks,  fidgeting,  “it  ’ll  be — I  say”  he 
said,  walking  to  the  window,  “  it’s  dark  as  a  wolf's  mouth, 
and.  Tern - 

“  The  long  and  short  is,  you’re  scared,  Marks;  but  I  can’t 
help  that,— you’ve  got  to  go.  Suppose  you  want  to  lie  by  a 
day  or  two.  till  the  gal’s  been  carried  on  the  underground 
line  up  to  Sandusky  or  so,  before  you  start!  ” 

“Oh.  no;  an’t  a  grain  afraid,”  said  Marks;  “only- — — ” 

“  Only  what?  ”  said  Tom. 

“  Well,  about  the  boat.  Yer  see  there  an’t  any  boat.” 

“  I  heard  the  woman  say  there  was  one  coming  along  this 
evening,  and  that  a  man  was  going  ro  cross  over  in  it.  Neck 
or  nothing,  we  must  go  with  him,”  said  Tom. 

“  I  s’pose  you’ve  got  good  dogs,”  salt  Haley. 

“  First-rate,”  said  Marks,  “  But  what’s  the  use?  you  han’t 
got  nothing  o’  her  to  smell  on.” 

“Yes,  I  have,”  said  Haley  triumphantly.  “Here’s  her 
shawl  she  left  on  the  bed  in  her  hurry;  she  left  her  bonnet, 
too.” 

“  That  aFs  lucky,”  said  Loker;  “  fork  over.” 

“  Though  the  dogs  might  damage  the  gal,  if  they  come  on 
her  unawares,”  said  Haley. 

“  That  ar’s  a  consideration,”  said  Marks.  “  Our  dogs  tore 
a  feller  half  to  pieces,  once,  down  in  Mobile,  ’fore  we  could 
get  ’em  off.” 

“  Well,  ye  see,  for  this  sort  that’s  to  be  sold  for  their  looks, 
that  ar  won’t  answer,  ye  see,”  said  Haley. 

“  I  do  see,”  said  Marks.  “  Besides,  if  she’s  got  took  in, 
^tan’t  no  go,  neither.  Dogs  is  no  ’count  in  these  yer  States 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY* 


n 

where  these  eritturs  gets  carried;  of  course,  ye  can  t  get  on 
their  track.  They  only  does  down  in  plantations,  where  nig¬ 
gers,  when  they  runs,  has  to  do  their  own  running,  and  don't 
get  no  help." 

“  Well,"  said  Loker,  who  had  just  stepped  out  to  the  bar 
to  make  some  inquiries,  “  they  say  the  man's  come  with  the 
boat;  so,  Marks—" 

That  worthy  east  a  rueful  look  at  the  comfortable  quarters 
he  was  leaving,  but  slowly  rose  to  obey.  After  exchanging 
a  few  words  of  further  arrangement,  Haley,  with  visible  re¬ 
luctance,  handed  over  the  fifty  dollars  to  Tom,  and  the 
worthy  trio  separated  for  the  night. 

If  any  of  our  refined  and  Christian  readers  object  to  the 
society  into  which  this  scene  introduces  them,  let  us  beg 
them  to  begin  and  conquer  their  prejudices  in  time.  The 
catching  business,  we  beg  to  remind  them,  is  rising  to  the 
dignity  of  a  lawful  and  patriotic  profession.  If  all  the  broad 
land  between  the  Mississippi  and  the  Pacific  becomes  one 
great  market  for  bodies  and  souls,  and  human  property  re¬ 
tains  the  locomotive  tendencies  of  this  nineteenth  century, 
the  trader  and  catcher  may  yet  be  among  the  aristocracy. 

While  this  scene  was  going  on  at  the  tavern,  Sam  and 
Andy,  in  a  state  of  high  felicitation,  pursued  their  way  home. 

Sam  was  in  the  highest  possible  feather,  and  expressed  his 
exultation  by  all  sorts  of  supernatural  howls  and  ejaculations, 
by  divers  odd  motions  and  contortions  of  his  whole  system. 
Sometimes  he  would  sit  backward,  with  his  face  to  the  horse's 
tail  and  sides,  and  then,  with  a  whoop  and  a  somerset,  come 
right  side  up  in  his  place  again,  and  drawing  on  a  grave  face, 
begin  to  lecture  Andy  in  high-sounding  tones  for  laughing 
and  playing  the  fool.  Anon,  slapping  his  sides  with  his  arms, 
he  would  burst  forth  in  peals  of  laughter  that  made  the  old 
woods  ring  as  they  passed.  With  all  these  evolutions  he  con¬ 
trived  to  keep  the  horses  up  to  the  top  of  their  speed,  until, 
between  ten  and  eleven,  their  heels  resounded  on  the  gravel 
at  the  end  of  the  balcony.  Mrs.  Shelby  flew  to  the  railings. 

“  Is  that  you,  Sam?  Where  are  they?  " 

“  Mas'r  Haley's  a-restin'  at  the  tavern;  he's  drefful  fatigued, 
missis." 

“  And  Eliza,  Sam?  " 

_  “  Wal,  she's  clar  'cross  Jordan.  As  a  body  may  say*  in 
the  land  o'  Canaan." 


! 


UN  CL®  tom’s  cabin;  OB* 

“  Why,  Bam,  what  do  you  mean? ”  said  Mrs,  Shelby, 
breathless,  and  almost  faint,  as  the  possible  meaning  of  these 
words  came  over  her. 

“  Wal,  missis,  de  Lord  he  presarves  his  own.  Lizy's  done 
gone  over  the  river  into  ’Hio,  as  ’markably  as  if  de  Lord  took 
her  over  in  a  charrit  of  fire  and  two  hosses.” 

Sam’s  vein  of  piety  was  always  uncommonly  fervent  in  his 
mistress’  presence;  and  he  made  great  capital  of  Scriptural 
figures  and  images. 

“  Come  up  here,  Sam,”  said  Mr.  Shelby,  who  had  followed 
on  to  the  veranda,  “  and  tell  your  mistress  what  she  wants. 
Come,  come,  Emily,”  said  he,  passing  his  arm  round  her, 
“  you  are  cold  and  all  in  a  shiver;  you  allow  yourself  to  feel 
too  much.” 

“Feel  too  much!  Am  I  not  a  woman,— a  mother?  Are 
we  not  both  responsible  to  God  for  this  poor  girl?  My  God! 
lay  not  this  sin  to  our  charge.” 

“What  sin,  Emily?  You  see  yourself  that  we  have  only 
done  what  we  were  obliged  to.” 

“  There’s  an  awful  feeling  of  guilt  about  it,  though,”  said 
Mrs.  Shelby.  “  I  can’t  reason  it  away.” 

“  Here,  Andy,  you  nigger,  be  alive!  ”  called  Sam  under  the 
veranda;  “take  these  yer  bosses  to  de  barn;  don’t  ye  hear 
mas’r  a-callin’ !  ”  and  Sam  soon  appeared,  palm-leaf  in  hand, 
at  the  parlor  doer. 

“  How,  Sam,  tell  us  distinctly  how  the  matter  was,”  said 
Mr.  Shelby.  “  Where  is  Eliza,  if  you  know?  ” 

“Wal,  mas’r,  I  saw  her,  with  my  own  eyes,  a-erossin’  on 
the  floatin’  ice.  She  crossed  most  ’markably;  it  wasn’t  no  less 
nor  a  miracle;  and  I  saw  a  man  help  her  up  the  ’Hio  side,  and 
then  she  was  lost  in  the  dusk.” 

“Sam,  I  think  this  rather  apocryphal— this  miracle. 
Crossing  on  floating  ice  isn’t  so  easily  done,”  said  Mr.  Shelby. 

“  Easy!  couldn’t  nobody  ’a’  done  it,  wiclout  de  Lord.  WTiy, 
now,”  said  Sam,  “  ’twas  jist  dis  yer  way.  Mas’r  Haley,  and 
me,  and  Andy,  we  comes  up  to  de  little  tavern  by  the  river, 
and  I  rides  a  little  ahead, — I’s  so  zealous  to  be  a-cotchin’ 
Lizy  that  I  couldn’t  hold  in,  noway —and  when  I  comes  by 
the  tavern  winder,  sure  enough  there  she  was,  right  in  plain 
sight,  and  dey  diggin’  on  behind.  Wal,  I  loses  off  my  hat, 
and  sings  out  nuff  to  raise  the  dead.  Course  Lisy  she  bars, 
and. she  dodges  back,  when  Mas’r  Haley  he  goes  past  the 
door;  and  then,  I  tell  ye,  she  dared  ou£  de  side  door;  she 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY. 


n 

went  down  de  river  bank; — Mas’r  Haley  he  seed  her,  and 
yelied  out,  and  him,  and  me,  and  Andy,  we  took  arter. 
Down  she  come  to  the  river,  and  thar  was  the  current 
running  ten  feet  wide  by  the  shore,  and  over  t’other  side  ice 
a-sawin’  and  a-jiggling  up  and  down,  kinder  as  ’twere  a  great 
island.  We  come  right  behind  her,  and  I  thought,  my  soul! 
he’d  got  her  sure  enough, — when  she  gin  sich  a  screech  as 
I  never  heam,  and  thar  she  was,  clar  over  t’other  side  the  cur¬ 
rent,  on  the  ^tee,  and  then  on  she  went,  a-screeching  and 
a-jumpin’— the  ice  went  crack! — c’wallop!  cracking!  chunk! 
and  she  a-boundin’  like  a  buck!  Lord,  the  spring  that  ar 
gal’s  got  in  her  an’t  common,  I’m  o’  ’pinion.” 

Mrs.  Shelby  sat  perfectly  silent,  pale  with  excitement,  while 
Sam  told  his  story. 

“  God  be  praised,  she  isn’t  dead!  ”  she  said;  “  but  where  is 
the  poor  child  now?  ” 

“  De  Lord  will  pervide,”  said  Sam,  rolling  up  his  eyes 
piously.  “  As  I’ve  been  a-sayin’,  dis  yer’s  a  providence  and 
no  mistake,  as  missis  has  allers  been  a-instructin’  on  us. 
Thar’s  allers  instruments  ris  up  to  de  Lord’s  will.  Now,  if’fc 
hadn’t  been  for  me  to-day,  she’d  ’a’  been  took  a  dozen  times. 
Warn’t  it  I  started  off  de  bosses,  dis  yer  mornin’,  and  kept 
’em  chasin’  till  nigh  dinner-time?  And  didn’t  I  car’  Mas’r 
Haley  nigh  five  miles  out  of  de  road,  dis  evening,  or  else  he’d 
’a’  come  up  with  Lizy  as  easy  as  a  dog  arter  a  coon?  These 
yer’s  all  providences.” 

“  They  are  a  kind  of  providences  that  you’ll  have  to  be 
pretty  sparing  of,  Master  Sam.  I  aLow  no  such  practices 
with  gentlemen  on  my  place,”  said  Mr.  Shelby,  with  as  much 
sternness  as  he  could  command,  under  the  circumstances. 

Now,  there  is  no  more  use  in  making  believe  be  angry  with 
a  negro  than  with  a  child;  both  instinctively  see  the  true  state 
of  the  case,  through  all  attempts  to  affect  the  contrary;  and 
Sam  was  in  no  wise  disheartened  by  this  rebuke,  though  he 
assumed  an  air  of  doleful  gravity,  and  stood  with  the  corners 
of  his  mouth  lowered  in  most  penitential  style. 

“  Mas’r’s  quite  right, — quite;  it  was  ugly  on  me, — there’s 
no  disputin’  that  ar;  and  of  course  mas’r  and  missis  wouldn’t 
encourage  no  such  works.  I’m  sensible  of  dat  ar;  but  a  poor 
nigger  like  me’s  ’mazin’  tempted  to  act  ugly  sometimes,  when 
fellers  will  cut  up  such  shines  as  dat  ar  Mas’r  Haley;  he  an’t 
no  gen’l’man  noway;  anybody’s  been  raised  as  I’ve  been  can’t 
Jaelp  a-ser :  y  dat  ar.” 


tfNQLE  TOM’S  CABIN  ;  OR, 


“  Well,  Sam,”  said  Mrs.  Shelby,  “  as  you  appear  to  have  ft 
proper  sense  of  your  errors,  you  may  go  now  and  tell  Aunt 
Chioe  she  may  get  you  some  of  that  cold  ham  that  was  left 
of  dinner  to-daj^.  You  and  Andy  must  be  hungry.” 

“  Missis  is  a  heap  too  good  for  us,”  said  Sam,  making  his 
bow  with  alacrity,  and  departing. 

It  will  be  perceived,  as  has  been  before  intimated,  that 
Master  Sam  had  a  native  talent  that  might,  undoubtedly,  have 
raised  him  to  eminence  in  political  life, — a  tal*?it  of  making 
capital  out  of  everything  that  turned  up,  to  be  invested  for 
his  own  especial  praise  and  glory;  and  having  done  up  his 
piety  and  humility,  as  he  trusted,  to  the  satisfaction  of  the 
parlor,  he  clapped  his  palm-leaf  on  his  head  with  a  sort  of 
rakish,  free-and-easy  air,  and  proceeded  to  the  dominions  of 
Aunt  Chioe,  with  the  intention  of  flourishing  largely  in  the 
kitchen. 

“  Fll  speechify  these  yer  niggers,”  said  Sam  to  himself, 
“  now  Pve  got  a  chance.  Lord,  Fll  reel  it  off  to  make  'em 
stare!  ” 

It  must  be  observed  that  one  of  Sands  especial  delights  had 
been  to  ride  in  attendance  on  his  master  to  all  kinds  of  politi¬ 
cal  gatherings,  where,  roosted  on  some  rail  fence,  or  perched 
aloft  in  some  tree,  he  would  sit  watching  the  orators  with  the 
greatest  apparent  gusto,  and  then,  descending  among  the 
various  brethren  of  his  own  color,  assembled  on  the  same 
errand,  he  would  edify  and  delight  them  with  the  most  ludi¬ 
crous  burlesques  and  imitations,  all  delivered  with  the  most 
imperturbable  earnestness  and  solemnity;  and  though  the 
auditors  immediately  about  him  were  generally  of  his  own 
color,  it  not  unfrequently  happened  that  they  vrere  fringed 
pretty  deeply  with  those  of  a  fairer  complexion,  who  listened, 
laughing  and  winking,  to  Sands  great  self-congratulation. 
In  fact,  Sam  considered  oratory  as  his  vocation,  and  never  let 
slip  an  opportunity  of  magnifying  his  office. 

Now,  between  Sam  and  Aunt  Chioe  there  had  existed,  from 
ancient  times,  a  sort  of  chronic  feud,  or  rather  a  decided  cool¬ 
ness;  but  as  Sam  was  meditating  something  in  the  provision 
department,  as  the  necessary  and  obvious  foundation  of  his 
operations,  he  determined  on  the  present  occasion  to  he  emi¬ 
nently  conciliatory;  for  he  well  knew  that  although  “  missis* 
orders  ”  would  undoubtedly  he  followed  to  the  letter,  yet  he 
should  gain  a  considerable  deal  by  enlisting  the  soirit  also. 
He  therefore  appeared  before  Aunt  Chioe  with  a  touchingly 


SJFB  AMONG  THE  LOWLT. 


n 

subdued,  resigned  expression,  like  one  who  has  suffered  im¬ 
measurable  hardships  in  behalf  of  a  persecuted  fellow-erea- 
ture,— enlarged  upon  the  fact  that  missis  had  directed  him  to 
come  to  Aunt  Chloe  for  whatever  might  be  wanting  to  make 
up  the  balance  in  his  solids  and  fluids, — and  thus  unequivoc¬ 
ally  acknowledged  her  right  and  supremacy  in  the  cooking 
department,  and  all  thereto  pertaining. 

The  thing  took  accordingly.  No  poor,  simple,  virtuous 
body  was  ever  cajoled  by  the  attentions  of  an  electioneering 
politician  with  more  ease  than  Aunt  Chloe  was  won  over  by 
Master  Sam’s  suavities;  and  if  he  had  been  the  prodigal  son 
himself,  he  could  not  have  been  overwhelmed  with  more 
maternal  bountifulness;  and  he  soon  found  himself  seated, 
happy  and  glorious,  over  a  large  tin  pan  containing  a  sort  of 
olla  podrida  of  all  that  had  appeared  on  the  table  for  two  or 
three  days  past.  Savory  morsels  of  ham,  golden  blocks  of 
corn-cake,  fragments  of  pie  of  every  conceivable  mathemati¬ 
cal  figure,  chicken  wings,  gizzards,  and  drumsticks,  all 
appeared  in  picturesque  confusion;  and  Sam,  as  monarch  of 
all  he  surveyed,  sat  with  his  palm-leaf  cocked  rejoicingly  to 
one  side,  and  patronizing  Andy  at  his  right  hand. 

The  kitchen  was  full  of  all  his  compeers,  who  had  hurried 
and  crowded  in,  from  the  various  cabins,  to  hear  the  termina¬ 
tion  of  the  day’s  exploits.  Now  was  Sam’s  hour  of  glory. 
The  story  of  the  day  was  rehearsed  with  all  kinds  of  orna¬ 
ment  and  varnishing  which  might  be  necessary  to  heighten 
its  effect;  for  Sam,  like  some  of  our  fashionable  dilettanti, 
never  allowed  a  story  to  lose  any  of  its  gilding  by  passing 
through  his  hands.  Hoars  of  laughter  attended  the  narra¬ 
tion,  and  were  taken  up  and  prolonged  by  all  the  smaller  fry, 
who  were  lying  in  any  quantity  about  on  the  floor,  or  perched 
in  every  corner.  In  the  height  of  the  uproar  and  laughter, 
Sam,  however,  preserved  an  immovable  gravity,  only  from 
time  to  time  rolling  his  eyes  up,  and  giving  his  auditors  inex¬ 
pressibly  droll  glances,  without  departing  from  the  senten¬ 
tious  elevation  of  his  oratory. 

“  Yer  see,  fellow-countrymen,”  said  Sam,  elevating  a 
turkey’s  leg,  with  energy,  “  yer  see,  now,  what  dis  chile’s  up 
ter,  for  ’fendin’  yer  all, — yes,  all  on  yer.  For  him  as  tries  to 
get  one  o’  our  people  is  as  gjod  as  tryin’  to  get  all;  yer  see  the 
principle’s  de  same,— dat  ar  s  claw  And  anyone  o’  these  yer 
drivers  that  comes  smelling  round  arter  any  o’  cur  people, 
.why,  he’s  got  me  in  Ms  way;  Fr.i  the  feller  he’s  got  t®  set  in 


UNCLES  tom’s  cabin  ;  OB, 

with,— I’m  the  feller  for  yer  all  to  come  to,  bredren,~JTi 
stand  np  for  yer  rights, — i’ll  ’fend  ’em  to  the  last  breath!  ” 
Why,  but,  Sam,  yer  telled  me,  only  this  mornin’,  that 
you’d  help  this  yer  mas’r  to  eotch  Lizy;  seems  to  me  yer  talk 
don’t  hang  together,”  said  Andy. 

“I  tell  you  now,  Andy,”  said  Sam,  with  awful  superiority, 
“  don’t  yer  be  a-talkin’  ’bout  what  yer  don’t  know  nothin’  on; 
boys  like  you,  Andy,  means  weli,  but  they  can’t  be  spected  to 
collusitate  the  great  principles  of  action.” 

Andy  looked  rebuked,  particularly  by  the  hard  word  col¬ 
lusitate,  which  most  of  the  younger  members  of  the  company 
seemed  to  consider  as  a  settler  in  the  case,  while  Sam 
proceeded. 

“  Dat  ar  was  conscience ,  Andy;  when  I  thought  of  gwine 
arter  Lizy,  I  railly  spected  mas’r  was  sot  dat  way.  When  I 
found  missis  was  sot  the  contrar,  dat  was  conscience  more 
yet , — ’cause  fellers  allers  gets  more  by  stickin’  to  missis* 
side, — so  yer  see  I’s  persistent  either  way,  and  sticks  up  to 
conscience,  and  holds  on  to  principles.  Yes,  principles ,”  said 
Sam,  giving  an  enthusiastic  toss  to  a  chicken’s  neck, — 
“  what’s  principles  good  for,  if  we  isn’t  persistent,  I  wanter 
know?  Thar,  Andy,  you  may  have  dat  ar  bone,— ’tan’t 
picked  quite  clean.” 

Sam’s  audience  hanging  on  his  words  with  open  mouth,  he 
could  but  proceed. 

“Dis  yer  matter  ’bout  persistence,  feller-niggers,”  said  Sam, 
with  the  air  of  one  entering  into  an  abstruse  subject,  “  dis 
yer  ’sistency’s  a  thing  what  an’t  seed  into  very  clar,  by  most 
anybody.  Now,  yer  see,  when  a  feller  stands  up  for  a  thing 
one  day  and  night,  de  contrar  de  next,  folks  ses  (and  nat’- 
rally  enough  dey  ses),  why,  he  an’t  persistent— hand  me  dat 
ar  bit  o’  corn-cake,  Andy.  But  let’s  look  inter  it.  I  hope 
the  gen’l’men  and  der  fair  sex  will  sense  my  usin’  an  or’nary 
sort  o’  ’parison.  Here!  I’m  a-tryin’  to  get  top  o’  der  hay. 
Wal,  I  puts  my  larder  dis  yer  side;  ’tan’t  no  go;— den,  ’cause 
I  don’t  try  dere  no  more,  but  puts  my  larder  right  de  contrar 
side,  an’t  I  persistent?  I’m  persistent  in  wantin’  to  get  up 
which  ary  side  my  larder  is;  don’t  you  see,  all  on  yer?  ” 

“  It’s  the  only  thing  ye  ever  was  persistent  in,  Lord 
knows!”  muttered  Aunt  Ohloe,  who  was  getting  rather  res¬ 
tive;  the  merriment  of  the  evening  being  to  her  somewhat 
after  the  Scripture  comparison,— like  “  vinegar  upon  nitre.” 

“  Yes,  indeed!  ”  said  Sam,  rising,  full  of  supper  and  glory, 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY. 


7» 

for  a  closing  effort.  “  Yes,  my  feller-citizens  and  ladies  of 
de  other  sex  in  general,  I  has  principles, — I'm  proud  to  'ooa 
'em, — they's  perquisite  to  dese  yer  times,  and  ter  all  times.  I 
has  principles,  and  I  sticks  to  'em  like  forty, — jest  anything 
that  I  thinks  is  principles,  I  goes  in  to't; — I  wouldn't  mind 
if  dey  burnt  me  'live, — I'd  walk  right  up  to  the  stake,  I  would* 
and  say,  here  I  comes  to  shed  my  last  blood  fur  my  principles* 
fur  my  country,  fur  der  gen'l  interests  of  s'ciety." 

“  Well,"  said  Aunt  Chloe,  “  one  o'  yer  principles  will  have 
to  be  to  get  to  bed  some  time  to-night,  and  not  be  a-keepm* 
everybody  up  till  mornin';  now,  everyone  of  you  young  uns 
that  don't  want  to  be  cracked,  had  better  be  scase,  mighty 
sudden." 

“  Niggers!  all  on  yer,"  said  Sam,  waving  his  palm-leaf  with 
benignity,  “I  give  yer  my  blessin';  go  to  bed  now,  and  be 
good  boys." 

And,  with  this  pathetic  benediction,  the  assembly  dispersed. 


CHAPTEK  IX. 

IN  WHICH  IT  APPEARS  THAT  A  SENATOR  IS  BUT 
A  MAN. 

The  light  of  the  cheerful  fire  shone  on  the  rug  and  carpet 
of  a  cozy  parlor,  and  glittered  on  the  sides  of  the  teacups  and 
well-brightened  teapot,  as  Senator  Bird  was  drawing  off  his 
boots,  preparatory  to  inserting  his  feet  in  a  pair  of  new,  hand¬ 
some  slippers  which  his  wife  had  been  working  for  him  while 
away  on  his  senatorial  tour.  Mrs.  Bird,  looking  the  very 
picture  of  delight,  was  superintending  the  arrangements  of 
the  table,  ever  and  anon  mingling  admonitory  remarks  to  a 
number  of  frolicsome  juveniles,  who  were  effervescing  in  all 
those  modes  of  untold  gambol  and  mischief  that  have  aston¬ 
ished  mothers  ever  since  the  flood. 

“  Tom,  let  the  door-knob  alone, — there's  a  man!  Mary! 
Mary!  don't  pull  the  cat's  tail,- — poor  pussy!  Jim,  you 
mustn't  climb  on  that  table, — no,  no!  You  don't  know,  my 
dear,  what  a  surprise  it  is  to  us  all,  to  see  you  here  to-night! " 
said  she,  at  last,  when  she  found  a  space  to  say  something  to 
her  husband. 

u  Yes,  yes,  I  thought  Fd  just  make  a  run  down,  spend  the 


98 


UNCLE  tom’s  cabin  ;  OR} 

night,  and  have  a  little  comfort  at  home.  I’m  tired  to  deaths 
and  my  head  aches!  ” 

Mrs.  Bird  cast  a  glance  at  a  camphor  bottle  which  stood  in 
the  half-open  closet,  and  appeared  to  meditate  an  approach 
to  it,  but  her  husband  interposed. 

“  No,  no,  Mary,  no  doctoring!  a  cup  of  your  good,  hot  tea, 
and  some  of  our  good  home  living,  is  what  I  want.  It’s  a 
tiresome  business,  this  legislating!  ” 

And  the  senator  smiled,  as  if  he  rather  liked  the  idea  of 
considering  himself  a  sacrifice  to  his  country. 

“Well,”  said  his  wife,  after  the  business  of  the  tea-table 
was  getting  rather  slack,  “  and  what  have  they  been  doing  in 
the  Senate?  ” 

Now,  it  was  a  very  unusual  thing  for  gentle  little  Mrs.  Bird 
ever  to  trouble  her  head  with  what  was  going  on  in  the  house 
of  the  State,  very  wisely  considering  that  she  had  enough  to 
do  to  mind  her  own.  Mr.  Bird,  therefore,  opened  his  eyes  in 
surprise,  and  said: 

“  Not  very  much  of  importance.” 

“  Well;  but  is  it  true  that  they  have  been  passing  a  law1 
forbidding  people  to  give  meat  and  drink  to  those  poor  col¬ 
ored  folks  that  come  along?  I  heard  they  were  talking  of 
some  such  law,  but  I  didn’t  think  any  Christian  legislature 
would  pass  it!  ” 

“  Why,  Mary,  you  are  getting  to  be  a  politician,  all  at 
once.” 

“  No,  nonsense!  I  wouldn’t  give  a  fig  for  all  your  politics, 
generally,  but  I  think  this  is  something  downright  cruel  and 
unchristian.  I  hope,  my  dear,  no  such  law  has  been  passed.” 

“  There  has  been  a  law  passed  forbidding  people  to  help 
off  the  slaves  that  come  over  from  Kentucky,  my  dear;  so 
much  of  that  thing  has  been  done  by  these  reckless  Aboli¬ 
tionists  that  oui  brethren  in  Kentucky  are  very  strongly  ex¬ 
cited,  and  it  seems  necessary,  and  no  more  than  Christian 
and  kind,  that  something  should  be  done  by  our  State  to 
quiet  the  excitement.” 

“  And  what  is  the  law?  It  don’t  forbid  us  to  shelter  these 
poor  creatures  a  night,  does  it,  and  to  give  ’em  something 
comfortable  to  eat,  and  a  few  old  clothes,  and  to  send  them 
quietly  about  their  business?” 

“  Why,  yes,  my  dear;  that  would  be  aiding  and  abetting, 
you  know.” 

Mrs.  Bird  was  a  timid,  blushing  little  woman,  about  four 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY. 


feet  in  height,  and  with  mild  blue  eyes,  and  a  peachblow  com¬ 
plexion,  and  the  gentlest,  sweetest  voice  in  the  world;  as  for 
courage,  a  moderate-sized  cock-turkey  had  been  known  to  put 
her  to  rout  at  the  very  first  gobble,  and  a  stout  house-dog 
of  moderate  capacity  would  bring  her  into  subjection  merely 
by  a  show  of  his  teeth.  Her  husband  and  children  were  her 
entire  world,  and  in  these  she  ruled  more  by  entreaty  and 
persuasion  than  by  command  or  argument.  There  was  only 
one  thing  that  was  capable  of  arousing  her,  and  that  provoca¬ 
tion  came  in  on  the  side  of  her  unusually  gentle  and  sympa¬ 
thetic  nature;— anything  in  the  shape  of  cruelty  would  throw 
her  into  a  passion,  which  was  the  more  alarming  and  inex¬ 
plicable  in  proportion  to  the  general  softness  of  her  nature. 
Generally  the  most  indulgent  and  easy  to  be  entreated  of  all 
mothers,  still  her  boys  had  a  very  reverent  remembrance  of 
a  most  vehement  chastisement  she  once  bestowed  on  them, 
because  she  found  them  leagued  with  several  graceless  boys 
of  the  neighborhood,  stoning  a  defenseless  kitten. 

“  I’ll  tell  you  what/5  Master  Bill  used  to  say,  “  I  was  scared 
that  time.  Mother  came  at  me  so  that  I  thought  she  was 
crazy,  and  I  was  whipped  and  tumbled  off  to  bed,  without 
any  supper,  before  I  could  get  over  wondering  what  had  come 
about;  and,  after  that,  I  heard  mother  crying  outside  the 
door,  which  made  me  feel  worse  than  all  the  rest.  Pi!  tell 
you  what/5  he’d  say,  “  we  boys  never  stoned  another  kitten!  ” 
On  the  present  occasion  Mrs.  Bird  rose  quickly  with  very 
red  cheeks,  which  quite  improved  her  general  appearance, 
and  walked  up  to  her  husband  with  quite  a  resolute  air,  and 
said,  in  a  determined  tone: 

“  How,  John,  I  want  to  know  if  you  think  such  a  law  as 
that  is  right  and  Christian?  ” 

“  You  won’t  shoot  me,  now,  Mary,  if  I  say  I  do!  ” 

“I  never  could  have  thought  it  of  you,  John;  you  didn’t 
vote  for  it?  ” 

“  Even  so.  my  fair  politician.” 

“'You  ought  to  be  ashamed,  John!  Poor,  homeless,  house¬ 
less  creatures!  It’s  a  shameful,  wicked,  abominable  law,  and 
I’ll  break  it,  for  one,  the  first  time  I  get  a  chance;  and  I  hope 
I  shall  have  a  chance,  I  do!  Things  have  got  to  a  pretty 
pass,  if  a  woman  can’t  give  a  warm  supper  and  a  bed  to  poor 
starving  creatures  just  because  they  are  slaves  and  have  been 
abused  and  oppressed  all  their  lives,  poor  things!  ” 

“  But.  Mary,  just  listen  to  me.  Your  feelings  are  ill  quite 


80 


tract,®  tom’s  cabin;  ob, 

right,  dear,  and  interesting,  and  I  love  you  for  them;  but, 
then,  dear,  we  mustn’t  suffer  our  feelings  to  run  away  with 
our  judgment;  you  must  consider  it’s  not  a  matter  of  private 
feeling, — there  are  great  public  interests  involved, — there  is 
such  a  state  of  public  agitation  rising  that  we  must  put  aside 
our  private  feelings.” 

•"Now,  John,  I  don’t  know  anything  about  politics,  but  I 
can  read  my  Bible;  and  there  I  see  that  I  must  feed  the  hun¬ 
gry,  clothe  the  naked,  and  comfort  the  desolate;  and  that 
Bible  I  mean  to  follow.” 

“  But  in  cases  where  your  doing  so  would  involve  a  great 
public  evil - ” 

“  Obeying  God  never  brings  on  public  evils.  I  know  it 
can’t.  It’s  always  safest,  all  round,  to  do  as  He  bids  us.” 

“  Now,  listen  to  me,  Mary,  and  I  can  state  to  you  a  very 
dear  argument,  to  show—” 

“Oh,  nonsense,  John!  you  can  talk  all  night,  but  you 
wouldn’t  do  it.  I  put  it  to  you,  John,— would  you ,  now, 
turn  away  a  poor,  shivering,  hungry  creature  from  your  door, 
because  he  was  a  runaway?  Would  you  now?” 

Now,  if  the  truth  must  be  told,  our  senator  had  the  mis¬ 
fortune  to  be  a  man  who  had  a  particularly  humane  and  ac¬ 
cessible  nature,  and  turning  away  anybody  that  was  in  trouble 
never  had  been  his  forte;  and  what  was  worse  for  him  in  this 
particular  pinch  of  the  argument  was  that  his  wife  knew  it, 
and,  of  course,  was  making  an  assault  on  rather  an  indefen¬ 
sible  point.  So  he  had  recourse  to  the  usual  means  of  gain¬ 
ing  time  for  such  cases  made  and  provided;  he  said  “  Ahem,” 
and  coughed  several  times,  took  out  his  pocket  handkerchief, 
and  began  to  wripe  his  glasses.  Mrs.  Bird,  seeing  the  defense¬ 
less  condition  of  the  enemy’s  territory,  had  no  more  con¬ 
science  than  to  push  her  advantage. 

“  I  should  like  to  see  you  doing  that,  J ohn, — I  really 
should.  Turning  a  woman  out  of  doors  in  a  snowstorm,  for 
Instance;  or,  maybe  you’d  take  her  up  and  put  her  in  jail, 
wouldn’t  you?  You  would  make  a  great  hand  at  that!  ” 

“  Of  course,  it  would  be  a  very  painful  duty,”  began  Mr. 
Bird,  in  a  moderate  tone. 

“Duty,  John!  don’t  use  that  word!  You  know  it  isn’t  a 
duty,— it  can’t  be  a  duty!  If  folks  want  to  keep  their  slaves 
from  running  away,  let  ’em  treat  ’em  well,— that’s  my  doc¬ 
trine.  If  X  had  slaves  (as  I  hope  I  never  shall  have),  I’d  risk 
their  wanting  to  ran  away  from  me,  or  you  either,  John.  I 


UF®  AMONG  THE  LOWLY. 


81 


tel!  you  folks  don’t  ran  away  when  they  are  happy;  and  when 
they  do  ran,  poor  creatures!  they  suffer  enough  with  cold  and 
hunger  and  fear,  without  everybody’s  turning  against  them; 
and  law  or  no  law,  I  never  will,  so  help  me  God!  ” 

“Mary!  Mary!  My  dear,  let  me  reason  with  you.” 

“  I  hate  reasoning,  J ohn,— especially  reasoning  on  such 
subjects.  There’s  a  way  you  political  folks  have  of  coming 
round  and  round  a  plain  right  thing;  and  you  don’t  believe  in. 
it  yourselves.,  when  it  comes  to  practice.  I  know  you  well 
enough,  John.  You  don’t  believe  it’s  right  any  more  than  I 
do;  and  you  wouldn’t  do  it  any  sooner  than  I.” 

At  this  critical  juncture  old  Cudjoe,  the  black  man-of -all- 
work,  put  his  head  in  at  the  door,  and  wished  “  Missis  would 
come  into  the  kitchen  ”;  and  our  senator,  tolerably  relieved, 
looked  after  his  little  wife  with  a  whimsical  mixture  of 
amusement  and  vexation,  and,  seating  himself  in  the  arm¬ 
chair,  began  to  read  the  papers. 

After  a  moment  his  wife’s  voice  was  heard  at  the  door,  in 
a  quick,  earnest  tone,— “John!  John!  I  do  wish  you’d  come 
here  a  moment.” 

He  laid  down  his  paper  and  went  into  the  kitchen,  and 
started,  quite  amazed  at  the  sight  that  presented  itself:  A 
young  and  slender  woman,  with  garments  tom  and  frozen, 
with  one  shoe  gone,  and  the  stocking  torn  away  from  the  cut 
and  bleeding  foot,  was  laid  back  in  a  deadly  swoon  upon  two 
chairs.  There  was  the  impress  of  the  despised  race  on  her 
face,  yet  none  could  help  feeling  its  mournful  and  pathetic 
beauty,  while  its  stony  sharpness,  its  cold,  fixed,  deadly 
aspect,  struck  a  solemn  chill  over  him.  He  drew  his  breath 
short,  and  stood  in  silence.  His  wife,  and  their  only  colored 
domestic,  old  Aunt  Dinah,  were  busily  engaged  in  restorative 
measures;  while  old  Cudjoe  had  got  a  boy  on  his  knee,  and 
was  busy  pulling  off  his  shoes  and  stockings,  and  chafing  his 
little  cold  feet. 

“  Sure,  now,  if  she  an’t  a  sight  to  behold!  ”  said  old  Dinah 
compassionately;  “’pears  like  ’twas  the  heat  that  made  her 
faint.  She  was  tol’able  peart  when  she  cum  in,  and  asked  if 
she  couldn’t  warm  herself  here  a  spell;  and  I  was  just  a-askin’ 
her  where  she  cum  from,  and  she  fainted  right  down.  Never 
done  much  hard  work,  guess,  by  the  looks  of  her  hands.” 

“  Poor  creature!  ”  said  Mrs.  Bird  compassionately,  as  the 
Woman  slowly  unclosed  her  large,  dark  eyes,  and  looked 
aracantH  at  her.  Suddenly  an  expression  of  agony  crossed 


uncle  tom’s  cabin;  Oil* 

her  face,  and  she  sprang  up,  saying,  “  Oh,  my  Harry?  Haw 
they  got  him?  ” 

The  boy  at  this  jumped  from  Cud  joe’s  knee,  and,  running 
to  her  side,  put  up  his  arms.  “  Oh,  he’s  here!  he’s  here!” 
she  exclaimed. 

“  Oh,  ma’am!  ”  said  she  wildly,  to  Mrs.  Bird,  “  do  protect 
us!  don’t  let  them  get  him!  ” 

“  Nobody  shall  hurt  you  here,  poor  woman,”  said  Mm 
Bird  encouragingly.  “  You  are  safe;  don’t  be  afraid.” 

“  God  bless  you!  ”  said  the  woman,  covering  her  face  and 
sobbing;  while  the  little  boy,  seeing  her  crying,  tried  to  get 
into  her  lap. 

With  many  gentle  and  womanly  offices  which  none  knew 
better  how  to  render  than  Mrs.  Bird,  the  poor  woman  was,  in 
time,  rendered  more  calm.  A  temporary  bed  was  provided 
for  her  on  the  settle,  near  the  fire;  and,  after  a  short  time,  she 
fell  into  a  heavy  slumber,  with  the  child,  who  seemed  no  less 
weary,  soundly  sleeping  on  her  arm;  for  the  mother  resisted 
with  nervous  anxiety  the  kindest  attempts  to  take  him  from 
her;  and  even  in  sleep  her  arms  encircled  him  with  an  unre¬ 
laxing  clasp,  as  if  she  could  not  even  then  be  beguiled  of  her 
vigilant  hold. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bird  had  gone  back  to  the  parlor,  where, 
strange  as  it  may  appear,  no  reference  was  made,  on  either 
side,  to  the  preceding  conversation;  but  Mrs.  Bird  busied 
herself  with  her  knitting  work  and  Mr.  Bird  pretended  to  be 
reading  the  paper. 

“  I  wonder  who  and  what  she  is!  ”  said  Mr.  Bird  at  last, 
as  he  laid  it  down. 

“  When  she  wakes  up  and  feels  a  little  rested  we  will  see,” 
said  Mrs.  Bird. 

“  I  say,  wife!  ”  said  Mr.  Bird,  after  musing  in  silence  over 
his  paper. 

“ Well,  dear?” 

“  She  couldn’t  wear  one  of  your  gowns,  could  she,  by  any 
letting  down,  or  such  matter?  She  seems  to  be  rather  larger 
than  you  are.” 

A  quite  perceptible  smile  glimmered  on  Mrs.  Bird’s  face  as 
she  answered,  “  We’ll  see.” 

Another  pause,  and  Mr.  Bird  again  broke  out: 

“  I  say,  wife!  ” 

"Wort!  what  now?” 

"  .Wh  .  here’s  that  old  bombazine  doak  that  QH 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY* 


83 


purpose  to  put  oyer  me  when  I  take  my  afternoon^  nap;  you 
might  as  well  give  her  that, — she  needs  clothes.” 

At  that  instant  Dinah  looked  in  to  say  that  the  woman  was 
awake,  and  wanted  to  see  missis. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bird  went  into  the  kitchen,  followed  by  the 
two  eldest  boys,  the  smaller  fry  having  by  this  time  been 
safely  disposed  of  in  bed. 

The  woman  was  now  sitting  up  on  the  settle  by  the  fire. 
She  was  looking  steadily  into  the  blaze  with  a  calm,  heart* 
broken  expression,  very  different  from  her  former  agitated 
wildness. 

“  Did  you  want  me? ”  said  Mrs.  Bird,  in  gentle  tones.  “  I 
hope  you  feel  better  now,  poor  woman! 99 

A  long-drawn,  shivering  sigh  was  the  only  answer;  but 
she  lifted  her  dark  eyes  and  fixed  them  on  her  with  such  a 
forlorn  and  imploring  expression  that  the  tears  came  into  the 
little  woman’s  eyes. 

“  You  needn’t  be  afraid  of  anything;  we  are  friends  here, 
poor  woman!  Tell  me  where  you  came  from,  and  what  you 
wrant,”  said  she. 

“  I  came  from  Kentucky,”  said  the  wroman. 

“When?”  said  Mr.  Bird,  taking  up  the  interrogatory. 

“  To-night.” 

“  How  did  you  come?  ” 

“  I  crossed  on  the  ice.” 

“  Crossed  on  the  ice!  ”  said  everyone  present. 

“  Yes,”  said  the  woman  slowly,  “  I  did.  God  helping  me, 
I  crossed  on  the  ice;  for  they  were  behind  me,— right  be¬ 
hind, — -and  there  was  no  other  way!  ” 

“Law,  missis,”  said  Cudjoe,  “the  ice  is  all  in  broken-up 
blocks,  a-swinging  and  a-teetering  up  and  down  in  the 
water.” 

“  1  know  it  was, — I  know  it!  ”  said  she  wildly;  “  but  I 
did  it!  I  wouldn’t  have  thought  I  could,— I  didn’t  think 
I  should  get  over,  hut  I  didn’t  care!  I  could  hut  die  if  I 
didn’t.  The  Lord  helped  me;  nobody  knows  how  much  the 
Lord  can  help  ’em  till  they  try,”  said  the  woman,  with  A 
flashing  eye. 

“  Were  you  a  slave?  ”  asked  Mr.  Bird. 

“  Yes,  sir;  I  belonged  to  a  man  in  Kentucky,” 

“  Was  he  unkind  to  you?  ” 

“  jSTo,  sir:  he  was  a  good  master.” 

*  And  wm  your  mistress  unkind  to  jqufiL 


UNCLE  TOMfS  CABIN  ;  OB, 

“ No,  sir, — -no!  my  mistress  was  always  good  to  me** 

“  What  could  induce  you  to  leave  a  good  home,  then,  andl 
run  away,  and  go  through  such  dangers?  ” 

The  woman  looked  up  at  Mrs.  Bird  with  a  keen,  serutiniz- ' 
ing  glance,  and  it  did  not  escape  her  that  she  was  dressed  in 
deep  mourning. 

“  Ma’am,”  she  said  suddenly,  “  have  yon  ever  lost  a  child?  n 

The  question  was  unexpected,  and  it  was  a  thrust  on  a  new 
wound;  for  it  was  only  a  month  since  a  darling  child  of  the 
family  had  been  laid  in  the  grave. 

Mr.  Bird  turned  around  and  walked  to  the  window,  and 
Mrs.  Bird  hurst  into  tears,  but,  recovering  her  voice,  she  said: 

“  Why  do  you  ask  that?  I  have  lost  a  little  one.” 

“  Then  you  will  feel  for  me.  I  have  lost  two,  one  after 
another, — -left  ’em  buried  there  when  I  came  away;  and  I  had* 
only  this  one  left.  I  never  slept  a  night  without  him;  he 
was  all  I  had.  He  was  my  comfort  and  pride,  day  and  night; 
and,  ma’am,  they  were  going  to  take  him  away  from  me,— to 
sell  him,— sell  him  down  South,  ma’am,  to  go  all  alone,— a 
baby  that  had  never  been  away  from  his  mother  in  his  life! 
1  couldn’t  stand  it,  ma’am.  I  knew  I  never  should  be  good 
for  anything  if  they  did;  and  when  I  knew  the  papers  were 
signed,  and  he  was  sold,  I  took  him  and  came  off  in  the  night; 
and  they  chased  me, — -the  man  that  bought  him,  and  some  of 
xnas’r’s  folks— and  they  were  coming  down  right  behind 
me,  and  I  heard  ’em.  I  jumped  right  on  to  the  ice;  and  how 
I  got  across,  I  don’t  know,— but,  first  I  knew,  a  man  was 
helping  me  up  the  bank.” 

The  woman  did  not  sob  nor  weep.  She  had  gone  to  a 
place  where  tears  are  dry;  hut  everyone  around  her  was,  in 
some  way  characteristic  of  themselves,  showing  signs  of 
hearty  sympathy. 

The  two  little  boys,  after  a  desperate  rummaging  in  their 
pockets  in  search  of  those  pocket  handkerchiefs  which 
mothers  know  are  never  to  be  found  there,  had  thrown  them¬ 
selves  disconsolately  into  the  skirts  of  their  mother’s  gown, 
where  they  were  sobbing  and  wiping  their  eyes  and  noses,  to 
their  hearts’  content;— Mrs.  Bird  had  her  face  fairly  hidden 
in  her  pocket  handkerchief;  and  old  Dinah,  with  tears 
streaming  down  her  black  honest  face,  was  ejaculating, 
“  Lord  have  mercy  on  us!”  with  all  the  fervor  of  a  camp¬ 
meeting;— while  old  Cud  joe,  rubbing  his  eyes  very  hard  with 
lus  cuffs,  and  making  a  most  uncommon  variety  of  wry  faces* 


LIF®  AMOtfG  THE  LOWLY. 


85 


Occasionally  responded  in  the  same  key,  with  great  fervor. 
Our  senator  was  a  statesman,  and  of  course  could  not  be  ex¬ 
pected  to  cry  like  other  mortals;  and  so  he  turned  his  back 
to  the  company,  and  looked  out  of  the  window,  and  seemed 
particularly  busy  in  clearing  his  throat,  and  wiping  his  spec¬ 
tacle  glasses,  occasionally  blowing  his  nose  in  a  manner  that 
was  calculated  to  excite  suspicion,  had  anyone  been  in  a  state 
to  observe  critically. 

“  How  came  you  to  tell  me  that  you  had  a  kind  master? 99 
he  suddenly  exclaimed,  gulping  down  very  resolutely  some 
kind  of  rising  in  his  throat,  and  turning  suddenly  round  upon 
the  woman. 

u  Because  he  was  a  kind  master;  HI  say  that  of  him,  any¬ 
way; — and  my  mistress  was  kind;  but  they  couldn’t  help 
themselves.  They  were  owing  money;  and  there  was  some 
way,  I  can’t  tell  how,  that  a  man  had  a  hold  on  them,  and 
they  were  obliged  to  give  him  his  will.  I  listened,  and  heard 
him  telling  mistress  that,  and  she  begging  and  pleading  for 
me, — and  he  told  her  he  couldn’t  help  himself,  and  that  the 
papers  were  all  drawn;— and  then  it  was  I  took  him  and  left 
my  home,  and  came  away.  I  knew  ’twas  no  use  of  my 
trying  to  live  if  they  did  it;  for’t  ’pears  like  this  child  is  all 
I  have.” 

“  Have  you  no  husband?  ” 

“  Yes,  but  he  belongs  to  another  man.  His  master  is  real 
hard  to  him,  and  won’t  let  him  come  to  see  me,  hardly  ever; 
and  he’s  grown  harder  and  harder  upon  us,  and  he  threatens 
to  sell  him  down  South; — it’s  like  I’ll  never  see  him  again.” 

The  quiet  tone  in  which  the  woman  pronounced  these 
words  might  have  led  a  superficial  observer  to  think  that  she 
was  entirely  apathetic;  bnt  there  was  a  calm,  settled  depth  of 
anguish  in  her  large,  dark  eye,  that  spoke  of  something  far 
otherwise. 

“  And  where  do  you  mean  to  go,  my  poor  woman?  ”  said 
Mrs.  Bird. 

u  To  Canada,  if  I  only  knew  where  that  was.  Is  it  very  far 
off,  is  Canada?”  said  she,  looking  up,  with  a  simple,  confid¬ 
ing  air,  to  Mrs.  Bird’s  face. 

“  Poor  thing!  ”  said  Mrs.  Bird  involuntarily. 

* Is’t  a  very  great  way  off,  think?”  said  the  woman  ear¬ 
nestly. 

u  Much  further  than  you  think,  poor  child!  ”  said  Mrs. 
kBkd*  “  but  wo  will  try  to  think  what  can  be  done  for  you* 


86 


UNCLE  tom’s  cabin;  or, 


Here,  Dinah,  make  her  up  a  bed  in  your  own  room,  close  by 
the  kitchen,  and  1/11  think  what  to  do  for  her  in  the  morning* 
Meanwhile,  never  fear,  poor  woman;  put  your  trust  in  God; 
he  will  protect  you.” 

Mrs.  Bird  and  her  husband  re-entered  the  parlor.  She  sat 
down  in  her  little  rocking-chair  before  the  fire,  swaying 
thoughtfully  to  and  fro.  Mr.  Bird  strode  up  and  down  the 
room,  grumbling  to  himself.  “Pish!  pshaw!  confounded 
awkward  business!  ”  At  length,  striding  up  to  his  wife,  he 
said: 

“  I  say,  wife,  she’ll  have  to  get  away  from  here,  this  very 
night.  That  fellow  will  be  down  on  the  scent  bright  and 
early  to-morrow  morning;  if  ’twas  only  the  woman,  she  could 
lie  quiet  till  it  was  over;  but  that  little  chap  jairt  he  kept 
still  by  a  troop  of  horse  and  foot,  I’ll  warrant  me;  he’ll  bring 
it  all  out,  popping  his  head  out  of  some  window  or  door.  A 
pretty  kettle  of  fish  it  would  be  for  me,  too,  to  be  caught  with 
them  both  here,  just  now!  No;  they’ll  have  to  be  got  off 
to-night.” 

“To-night!  How  is  it  possible ?— where  to?” 

“  Well,  I  know  pretty  well  where  to,”  said  the  senator,  be* 
ginning  to  put  on  his  boots,  with  a  reflective  air;  and  stop¬ 
ping  w  hen  his  leg  was  half  in,  he  embraced  his  knee  wdth 
belli  hands,  and  seemed  to  go  off  in  deep  meditation. 

“  It’s  a  confounded  awkward,  ugly  business,”  said  he,  at 
last,  beginning  to  tug  at  his  bootstraps  again,  “  and  that’s  a 
fact!  ”  After  one  boot  was  fairly  on,  the  senator  sat  with 
the  other  in  his  hand,  profoundly  studying  the  figure  of  the 
carpet.  “  It  will  have  to  be  done,  though,  for  aught  I  see, — * 
hang  it  all!  ”  and  he  drew  the  other  boot  anxiously  on,  and 
looked  out  of  the  window. 

Now,  little  Mrs.  Bird  was  a  discreet  woman,— a  woman 
who  never  in  her  life  said,  “I  told  you  so!”  and,  on  the 
present  occasion,  though  pretty  well  aware  of  the  shape  her 
husband’s  meditations  were  taking,  she  very  nrudently  fore¬ 
bore  to  meddle  with  them,  only  sat  very  quietly  in  her  chair, 
and  looked  quite  ready  to  hear  her  liege  lord’s  intentions 
when  he  should  think  proper  to  utter  them. 

“  You  see,”  he  said,  “  there’s  my  old  client.  Van  Trompe, 
has  come  over  from  Kentucky,  and  set  all  his  slaves  free;  and 
he  has  bought  a  place  seven  miles  up  the  creek,  here  back  in 
the  woods,  vrnere  nobody  goes,  unless  they  go  on  purpose; 
and  it’s  a  place  that  isn’t  found  in  a  hurry.  There  she’d  be 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY,  8? 

safe  enough;  but  the  plague  of  the  thing  is,  nobody  could 
drive  a  carriage  there  to-night,  but  me.” 

“  Why  not?  Cud  joe  is  an  excellent  driver.” 

“  Ay,  ay,  but  here  it  is.  The  creek  has  to  be  crossed  twice; 
and  the  second  crossing  is  quite  dangerous,  unless  one  knows 
it  as  I  do.  I  have  crossed  it  a  hundred  times  on  horseback, 
and  know  exactly  the  turns  to  take.  And  so,  you  see,  there’s 
no  help  for  it.  Cudjoe  must  put  in  the  horses,  as  quietly  as 
may  be,  about  twelve  o’clock,  and  I’ll  take  her  over;  and 
then,  to  give  color  to  the  matter,  he  must  carry  me  on  to  the 
next  tavern,  to  take  the  stage  for  Columbus,  that  comes  by 
about  three  or  four,  and  so  it  will  look  as  if  I  had  had  the 
carriage  only  for  that.  I  shall  get  into  business  bright  and 
early  in  the  morning.  But  I’m  thinking  I  shall  feel  rather 
cheap  there,  after  all  that’s  been  said  and  done;  but,  hang  it, 
I  can’t  help  it!  ” 

“  Your  heart  is  better  than  your  head,  in  this  case,  John,” 
said  the  wife,  laying  her  little  white  hand  on  his.  “  Could  I 
ever  have  loved  you  had  I  not  known  you  better  than  you 
know  yourself?”  And  the  little  woman  looked  so  hand¬ 
some,  with  the  tears  sparkling  in  her  eyes,  that  the  senator 
thought  he  must  be  a  decidedly  clever  fellow,  to  get  such  a 
pretty  creature  into  such  a  passionate  admiration  of  him;  and 
so,  what  could  he  do  but  walk  off  soberly,  to  see  about  the 
carriage.  At  the  door,  however,  he  stopped  a  moment,  and 
then,  coming  back,  he  said,  with  some  hesitation : 

“  Mary,  I  don’t  know  how  you’d  feel  about  it,  but  there’s 
that  drawer  full  of  things— of- — of— poor  little  Henry’s.” 
So  saying,  he  turned  quickly  on  his  heel,  and  shut  the  door 
after  him. 

His  wife  opened  the  little  bedroom  door  adjoining  her 
room,  and  taking  the  candle,  set  it  down  on  the  top  of  a 
bureau  there;  then  from  a  small  recess  she  took  a  key  and 
put  it  thoughtfully  in  the  lock  of  a  drawer,  and  made  a  sud¬ 
den  pause,  while  two  boys,  who,  boy-like,  had  followed  close 
on  her  heels,  stood  looking  with  silent,  significant  glances  at 
their  mother.  And  oh,  mother  that  reads  this,  has  there 
never  been  in  your  house  a  drawer  or  a  closet,  the  opening  of 
which  has  been  to  you  like  the  opening  again  of  a  little 
grave?  Ah!  happy  mother  that  you  are,  if  it  has  not 
been  so. 

Mrs.  Bird  slowly  opened  the  drawer.  There  were  little 
coats  of  many  a  form  and  pattern,  piles  of  aprons,  and  rows 


B8  TOCL.B  TOM’S  CABm;  OR, 

of  small  stockings;  and  even  a  pair  of  little  shoes,  worn  and 
rubbed  at  the  toes,  were  peeping  from  the  folds  of  a  paper. 
There  was  a  toy  horse  and  wagon,  a  top,  a  ball,— memorials 
gathered  with  many  a  tear  and  many  a  heart-break.  She  sat 
down  by  the  drawer  and,  leaning  her  head  on  her  hands  over 
it,  wept  till  the  tears  fell  through  her  fingers  into  'he  drawer; 
then,  suddenly  raising  her  head,  she  began,  with  nervous 
haste,  selecting  the  plainest  and  most  substantial  articles  and 
gathering  them  into  a  bundle. 

“  Mamma,”  said  one  of  the  boys,  gently  touching  her  arm, 
“  are  you  going  to  give  away  those  things?  ” 

“My  dear  boys,”  she  said  softly  and  earnestly,  “if  our 
dear,  loving  little  Henry  looks  down  from  heaven,  he  would 
be  glad  to  have  us  do  this.  I  could  not  find  it  in  my  heart  to 
give  them  away  to  any  common  person, — to  anybody  that 
was  happy;  but  I  give  to  a  mother  more  heart-broken  and 
sorrowful  than  I  am;  and  I  hope  God  will  send  his  blessings 
with  them!  ” 

There  are  in  this  world  blessed  souls,  whose  sorrows  all 
spring  up  into  joys  for  others;  whose  earthly  hopes,  laid  in 
the  grave  with  many  tears,  are  the  seed  from  which  spring 
healing  flowers  and  balm  for  the  desolate  and  the  distressed. 
Among  such  was  the  delicate  woman  who  sits  there  by  the 
lamp,  dropping  slow  tears,  while  she  prepares  the  memorials 
of  her  own  lost  one  for  the  outcast  wanderer. 

After  a  while  Mrs.  Bird  opened  a  wardrobe,  and,  taking 
from  thence  a  plain,  serviceable  dress  or  two,  she  sat  down 
busily  to  her  work-table,  and,  with  needle,  scissors,  and 
thimble  at  hand,  quietly  commenced  the  “letting  down” 
process  which  her  husband  had  recommended,  and  continued 
busily  at  it  till  the  old  clock  in  the  corner  struck  twelve,  and 
she  heard  the  low  rattling  of  wheels  at  the  door. 

“  Mary,”  said  her  husband,  coming  in  with  his  overcoat  in 
his  hand,  “  you  must  wake  her  up  now;  wre  must  he  off.” 

Mrs.  Bird  hastily  deposited  the  various  articles  she  had 
collected  in  a  small,  plain  trunk,  and  locking  it,  desired  her 
husband  to  see  it  in  the  carriage,  and  then  proceeded  to  call 
the  woman.  Soon,  arrayed  in  a  cloak,  bonnet,  and  shawl 
that  had  belonged  to  her  benefactress,  she  appeared  at  the 
door  with  her  child  in  her  arms.  Mr.  Bird  hurried  her  into 
the  carriage,  and  Mrs.  Bird  pressed  on  after  her  to  the  car¬ 
riage  steps.  Eliza  leaned  out  of  the  carriage  and  put  out  lies 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY. 


80 


hand, — a  hand  as  soft  and  beautiful  as  was  given  in  return. 
She  fixed  her  large,  dark  eyes,  full  of  earnest  meaning,  on 
Mrs.  Bird’s  face,  and  seemed  going  to  speak.  Her  lips  moved, 
• — she  tried  once  or  twice,  but  there  was  no  sound, — and 
pointing  upward,  with  a  look  never  to  be  forgotten,  she  fell 
back  in  the  seat  and  covered  her  face.  The  door  was  shut, 
and  the  carriage  drove  on. 

What  a  situation,  now,  for  a  patriotic  senator  that  had  been 
all  the  week  before  spurring  up  the  legislature  of  his  native 
State  to  pass  more  stringent  resolutions  against  escaping  fugi¬ 
tives,  their  harborers  and  abettors! 

Our  good  senator  in  his  native  State  had  not  been  exceeded 
by  any  of  his  brethren  at  Washington  in  the  sort  of  eloquence 
which  has  won  for  them  immortal  renown!  How  sublimely 
he  had  sat  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets  and  scouted  all  senti¬ 
mental  weakness  of  those  who  would  put  the  welfare  of  a  few 
miserable  fugitives  before  great  State  interests! 

He  was  as  bold  as  a  lion  about  it,  and  “mightily  con¬ 
vinced  ”  not  only  himself,  but  everybody  that  heard  him;— 
but  then  his  idea  of  a  fugitive  was  only  an  idea  of  the  letters 
that  spell  the  word, — or,  at  the  most,  the  image  of  a  little 
newspaper  picture  of  a  man  with  a  stick  and  bundle,  with 
“  Ban  away  from  the  subscriber 99  under  it.  The  magic  of 
the  real  presence  of  distress, — the  imploring  human  eye,  the 
frail,  trembling  human  hand,  the  despairing  appeal  of  help¬ 
less  agony, — t'  ese  he  had  never  tried.  He  had  never 
thought  that  a  fugitive  might  he  a  hapless  mother  of  a  de¬ 
fenseless  child,- — like  that  one  which  was  now  wearing  his  lost 
boy’s  little  well-known  cap;  and  so,  as  our  poor  senator  was 
not  stone  or  steel,— as  he  was  a  man,  and  a  downright  noble- 
hearted  one,  too,— he  was,  as  everybody  must  see,  in  a  sad 
case  for  his  patriotism.  And  you  need  not  exult  over  him, 
good  brother  of  the  Southern  States;  for  we  have  some  ink¬ 
lings  that  many  of  you,  under  similar  circumstances,  would 
not  do  much  better.  We  have  reason  to  know,  in  Kentucky, 
as  in  Mississippi,  are  noble  and  generous  hearts,  to  whom 
never  was  tale  of  suffering  told  in  vain.  Ah,  good  brother! 
is  it  fair  for  you  to  expect  of  us  services  which  your  own 
brave,  honorable  heart  would  not  allow  you  to  render,  were 
you  in  our  place? 

Be  that  as  it  may,  if  our  good  senator  was  a  political  sinner, 
he  was  in  a  fair  way  to  expiate  it  by  his  night’s  penance. 
There  had  been  a  long,  continuous  period  of  rainy  weather* 


90 


uncle  tom’s  cabin;  oks 

and  the  soft,  rich  earth  of  Ohio,  as  everyone  knows,  is  ad¬ 
mirably  suited  to  the  manufacture  of  mud,— and  the  road 
was  an  Ohio  railroad  of  the  good  old  times. 

“  And  pray  what  sort  of  a  road  may  that  be?”  says  some 
Eastern  traveler,  who  has  been  accustomed  to  connect  no 
ideas  with  a  railroad  but  those  of  smoothness  or  speed. 

Know,  then,  innocent  Eastern  friend,  that  in  benighted 
regions  of  the  West,  where  the  mud  is  of  unfathomable  and 
sublime  depth,  roads  are  made  of  round  rough  logs,  arranged 
transversely  side  by  side,  and  coated  over  in  their  pristine 
freshness  with  earth,  turf,  and  whatsoever  may  come  to  hand, 
and  then  the  rejoicing  native  calleth  it  a  road,  and  straight¬ 
way  essayeth  to  ride  thereupon.  In  process  of  time  the  rains 
wash  off  all  the  turf  and  grass  aforesaid,  move  the  logs  hither 
and  thither  in  picturesque  positions  up,  down,  and  crosswise, 
with  divers  chasms  and  ruts  of  black  mud  intervening. 

Over  such  a  road  as  this  our  senator  went  stumbling  along, 
making  moral  reflections  as  continuously  as  under  the  circum¬ 
stances  could  be  expected,— the  carriage  proceeding  along 
much  as  follows, — bump!  bump!  bump!  slush!  down  in  the 
mud!— the  senator,  woman,  and  child  reversing  their  posi¬ 
tions  so  suddenly  as  to  come,  without  any  very  accurate 
adjustment,  against  the  windows  of  the  down-hill  side.  Car¬ 
riage  sticks  fast,  while  Cud  joe,  on  the  outside,  is  heard  mak¬ 
ing  a  great  muster  among  the  horses.  After  various 
ineffectual  pullings  and  twitchings,  just  as  the  senator  is  los¬ 
ing  all  patience,  the  carriage  suddenly  rights  itself  with  a 
bounce— two  front  wheels  go  down  into  another  abyss,  and 
senator,  woman,  and  child  all  tumble  promiscuously  on  to 
the  front  seat, — senator’s  hat  is  jammed  over  his  eyes  and 
nose  quite  unceremoniously,  and  he  considers  himself  fairly 
extinguished;— child  cries,  and  Cndjoe,  on  the  outside,  de¬ 
livers  animated  addresses  to  the  horses,  who  are  kicking,  and 
floundering,  and  straining,  under  repeated  cracks  of  the  whip. 
Carriage  springs  up,  with  another  bounce, — down  go  the 
hind  wheels,— senator,  woman  and  child  fly  over  on  to  the 
back  seat,  his  elbows  encountering  her  bonnet,  and  both  her 
feet  being  jammed  into  his  hat,  which  flies  off  in  the  concus¬ 
sion,  After  a  few  moments  the  “  slough  ”  is  passed,  and  the 
horses  stop  panting;— the  senator  finds  his  hat,  the  woman 
straightens  her  bonnet  and  hushes  her  child,  and  they  brace 
themselves  firmly  for  what  is  yet  to  come. 

Eor  a  while  only  the  continuous  hump!  bump!  inter- 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY. 


m 


mingled,  just  by  way  of  variety,  with  divers  side  plunges  and 
compound  shakes;  and  they  begin  to  flatter  themselves  that 
they  are  not  so  badly  off,  after  all.  At  last,  with  a  square 
plunge,  which  puts  all  on  to  their  feet  and  then  down  into 
their  seats  with  incredible  quickness,  the  carriage  stops, — * 
and,  after  much  outside  commotion,  Cud  joe  appears  at  the 
door. 

“  Please,  sir,  it’s  powerful  bad  spot,  this  yer.  I  don’t  know 
how  we’s  to  get  clar  out.  I’m  a-thinkin’  we’ll  have  to  be 
a-gettin’  rails.” 

The  senator  despairingly  steps  out,  picking  gingerly  for 
some  firm  foothold;  down  goes  one  foot  an  immeasurable 
depth, — he  tries  to  pull  it  up,  loses  his  balance,  and  tumbles 
over  into  the  mud,  and  is  fished  out,  in  a  very  despairing 
condition,  by  Cud  joe. 

But  we  forbear  out  of  sympathy  to  our  readers’  bones. 
Western  travelers,  who  have  beguiled  the  midnight  hour  in 
the  interesting  process  of  pulling  down  rail  fences  to  pry 
their  carriages  out  of  mud-holes,  will  have  a  respectful  and 
mournful  sympathy  with  our  unfortunate  hero.  We  beg 
them  to  drop  a  silent  tear,  and  pass  on. 

It  was  full  late  in  the  night  when  the  carriage  emerged, 
dripping  and  bespattered,  out  of  the  creek,  and  stood  at  the 
door  of  a  large  farmhouse. 

It  took  no  inconsiderable  perseverance  to  arouse  the  in¬ 
mates;  but  at  last  the  respectable  proprietor  appeared,  and 
undid  the  door.  He  was  a  great,  tall,  bristling  Orson  of  a 
fellow,  full  six  feet  and  some  inches  in  his  stockings,  and 
arrayed  in  a  red  flannel  hunting-shirt.  A  very  heavy  mat  of 
sandy  hair,  in  a  decidedly  tousled  condition,  and  a  beard  of 
some  days’  growth,  gave  the  worthy  man  an  appearance,  to 
say  the  least,  not  particularly  prepossessing.  lie  stood  for  a 
few  minutes  holding  the  candle  aloft,  and  blinking  on  our 
travelers  with  a  dismal  and  mystified  expression  that  was 
truly  ludicrous.  It  cost  some  effort  of  our  senator  to  induce 
him  to  comprehend  the  case  fully;  and  while  he  is  doing  his 
best  at  that,  we  shall  give  him  a  little  introduction  to  our 
readers. 

Honest  old  John  Van  Trompe  was  once  quite  a  eonsidera« 
ble  landholder  and  slave-owner  in  the  State  of  Kentucky. 
Having  “  nothing  of  the  bear  about  him  but  the  skin,”  and 
being  gifted  by  nature  with  a  great,  honest,  just  heart,  quite 
#quai  to  his  gigantic  frame,  he  had  been  fer  some  yeas»  wit- 


§2 


Uncle  tom’s  cabin  ;  ob, 

nessing  with  repressed  uneasiness  the  workings  of  system 
equally  bad  for  oppressor  and  oppressed.  At  last,  one  day, 
John’s  great  heart  had  swelled  altogether  too  big  to  wear  its 
bonds  any  longer;  so  he  just  took  his  poeketbook  out  of  his 
desk,  and  went  over  into  Ohio,  and  bought  a  quarter  of  a 
township  of  good,  rich  land,  made  out  free  papers  for  all  his 
people, — men,  women,  and  children, — packed  them  up  in 
wagons,  and  sent  them  oft  to  settle  down;  and  then  honest 
John  turned  his  face  up  the  creek,  and  sat  quietly  down 
on  a  snug,  retired  farm,  to  enjoy  his  conscience  and  hia 
reflections. 

“  Are  you  the  man  that  will  shelter  a  poor  woman  and 
child  from  slave-catchers? ”  said  the  senator  explicitly. 

“I  rather  think  I  am,”  said  honest  John,  with  some  con* 
siderable  emphasis. 

“  I  thought  so,”  said  the  senator. 

“  If  there’s  anybody  comes,”  said  the  good  man,  stretching 
his  tall,  muscular  form  upward,  “  why,  here  I’m  ready  for 
him;  and  I’ve  got  seven  sons,  each  six  foot  high,  and  they’ll 
be  ready  for  ’em.  Give  our  respects  to  ’em,”  said  John; 
“  tell  ’em  it’s  no  matter  how  soon  they  call, — make  no  kinder 
difference  to  us,”  said  John,  running  his  fingers  through  the 
shock  of  hair  that  thatched  his  head,  and  bursting  out  into  a 
great  laugh. 

Weary,  jaded,  and  spiritless,  Eliza  dragged  herself  up  to 
the  door,  with  her  child  lying  in  a  heavy  sleep  on  her  arm. 
The  rough  man  held  the  candle  to  her  face,  and  uttering  a 
kind  of  compassionate  grunt,  opened  the  door  of  a  small  bed¬ 
room  adjoining  to  the  large  kitchen  where  they  were  stand¬ 
ing,  and  motioned  her  to  go  in.  He  took  down  a  candle, 
and,  lighting  it,  set  it  upon  the  table,  and  then  addressed 
himself  to  Eliza. 

“  Now,  I  say,  gal,  you  needn’t  be  a  bit  afeard,  let  who  will 
come  here.  I’m  up  to  all  that  sort  o’  thing,”  said  he,  point¬ 
ing  to  two  or  three  goodly  rifles  over  the  mantelpiece;  “and 
most  people  that  know  me  know  that  ^wouldn’t  be  healthy 
to  try  to  get  anybody  out  o’  my  house  when  I’m  agin  it.  So 
now  you  jist  go  to  sleep  now,  as  quiet  as  if  yer  mother  was 
a-rocking  ye,”  said  he,  as  he  shut  the  door. 

“  Why,  this  is  an  uncommon  handsome  un,”  he  said  to  the 
senator.  “Ah,  well;  handsome  uns  has  the  greatest  cause 
to  run,  sometimes,  if  they  has  any  kind  o’  feelin’,  such  m 
decent  women  should.  1  know  all  about  that.” 


among  THE  LOWLY'. 


98 


LIFE 


The  senator,  in  a  few  words,  briefly  explained  Eliza*® 
tlistcry. 

“  Oh!  ou!  aw!  now,  I  want  to  know! ”  said  the  good 
man  pitifully;  “sho!  now  sho!  That’s  natur  now,  poor 
crittur!  hunted  down  now  like  a  deer, — hunted  down,  jest 
for  havin’  natural  feelin’s,  and  doin’  what  no  kind  o’  mother 
could  help  a-doin’!  I  tell  ye  what,  these  yer  things  make  me 
come  the  nighest  to  swearin’,  now,  o’  most  anything,”  said 
honest  John,  as  he  wiped  his  eyes  with  the  back  of  a  great, 
freckled,  yellow  hand.  “  I  tell  yer  what,  stranger,  it  was 
years  and  years  before  I’d  jine  the  church,  ’cause  the  minis¬ 
ters  round  in  our  parts  used  to  preach  that  the  Bible  went  in 
for  these  ere  cuttings  up, — and  I  couldn’t  be  up  to  ’em  with 
their  Greek  and  Hebrew,  and  so  I  took  up  agin  ’em,  Bible 
and  all.  I  never  jined  the  church  till  I  found  a  minister 
that  was  up  to  ’em  all  in  Greek  and  all  that,  and  he  said  right 
the  contrary;  and  then  I  took  right  hold,  and  joined  the 
church, — I  did  now,  fact,”  said  John,  who  had  been  all  this 
time  uncorking  some  very  frisky  bottled  cider,  which  at  this 
juncture  he  presented. 

“  Ye’d  better  jest  put  up  here,  now,  till  daylight,”  said  he 
heartily,  “  and  I’ll  call  up  the  old  woman,  and  have  a  bed  got 
ready  for  you  in  no  time.” 

“  Thank  you,  my  good  friend,”  said  the  senator.  “  I  must 
be  along,  to  take  the  night  stage  for  Columbus.” 

“  Ah!  well,  then,  if  you  must,  I’ll  go  a  piece  with  you,  and 
show  you  a  cross  road  that  will  take  you  there  better  than  the 
road  you  come  on.  That  road’s  mighty  bad.” 

John  equipped  himself,  and,  with  a  lantern  in  hand,  was 
soon  seen  guiding  the  senator’s  carriage  toward  a  road  that 
ran  down  in  a  hollow  back  of  his  dwelling.  When  they 
parted  the  senator  put  into  his  hand  a  ten-dollar  bill. 

“  It’s  for  her,”  he  said  briefly. 

“  Ay,  ayi  ”  said  John,  with  equal  conciseness. 

They  shook  hands,  and  parted. 


CHAPTER  X. 

THE  PROPERTY  IS  CARRIED  OFF. 

^  The  February  morning  looked  gray  and  drizzling  through 
the  window  of  Uncle  Tom’s  cabin.  It  looked  on  downcast 
faces,  the  images  of  mournful  hearts.  The  little  table  stood 


§4 


UNCLB  TOM’S  CABIN ;  OR, 

out  before  the  fire  covered  with  an  ironing-cloth;  a  coarse 
but  clean  shirt  or  two,  fresh  from  the  iron,  hung  on  the  back 
of  a  chair  by  the  fire,  and  Aunt  Chloe  had  another  spread  out 
before  her  on  the  table.  Carefully  she  rubbed  and  ironed 
every  fold  and  every  hem,  with  the  most  scrupulous  exact¬ 
ness,  every  now  and  then  raising  her  hand  to  her  face  to  wipe 
off  the  tears  that  were  coursing  down  her  cheeks. 

Tom  sat  by,  with  his  Testament  open  on  his  knee,  and  his 
head  leaning  upon  his  hand; — but  neither  spoke.  It  was  yet 
early,  and  the  children  lay  all  asleep  together  in  their  little 
rude  trundle-bed. 

Tom,  who  had,  to  the  full,  the  gentle,  domestic  heart, 
which,  woe  for  them!  has  been  a  peculiar  characteristic  of 
his  unhappy  race,  got  up  and  walked  silently  to  look  at  his 
children. 

“  It’s  the  last  time/’  he  said. 

Aunt  Chloe  did  not  answer,  only  rubbed  away  over  and 
over  on  the  coarse  shirt,  already  as  smooth  as  hands  could 
make  it,  and  finally  setting  her  iron  suddenly  down  with  a 
despairing  plunge,  she  sat  down  to  the  table,  and  “  lifted  up 
her  voice  and  wept.” 

“  S’pose  we  must  be  resigned;  but,  0  Lord!  how  ken  I?  If 
I  know’d  anything  whar  you’s  goin\  or  how  they’d  sarve  you! 
Missis  says  she’ll  try  and  ’deem  ye,  in  a  year  or  two;  but  Lor! 
nobody  never  comes  up  that  goes  down  thar!  They  kills  ’em! 
I’ve  beam  ’em  tell  how  dey  wTorks  ’em  up  on  dem  ar 
plantations.” 

“  There  ’ll  be  the  same  God  there,  Chloe,  that  there  is 
here.” 

“  Well,”  said  Aunt  Chloe,  “s’pose  dere  will;  but  de  Lord 
lets  drefful  things  happen,  sometimes.  I  don’t  seem  to  get 
no  comfort  dat  way.” 

"I’m  in  the  Lord’s  hands,”  said  Tom;  “ nothin’  can  go  no 
furder  than  he  lets  it; — and  thar’s  one  thing  I  can  thank  him 
for.  It’s  me  that’s  sold  and  going  down,  and  not  you 
nor  the  chil’en.  Here  you’re  safe; — what  comes  will  come 
only  on  me;  and  the  Lord,  he’ll  help  me, — I  know  he 
fill”  ^ 

4  Ah,  brave,  manly  heart,— smothering  thine  own  sorrow, 
to  comfort  thy  beloved  ones!  Tom  spoke  with  a  thick  utter¬ 
ance,  and  with  a  bitter  choking  in  his  throat, — but  he  spoke 
brave  and  strong. 

*  Let’s  think  on  our  marcies!  ”  he  added  tremulously,  as 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY, 


95 


if  he  was  quite  sure  he  needed  to  think  on  them  very  hard 
indeed. 

u  Marcies!  ”  said  Aunt  Chloe;  “  don’t  see  no  marcy  in’t! 
’tan’t  right!  ’tarAt  right  it  should  be  so!  Mas’r  ougnt  ter 
never  left  it  so  that  ye  could  be  took  for  his  debts.  Ye’ve 
arnt  him  all  he  gets  for  ye  twice  over.  He  owed  ye  yer  free¬ 
dom,  and  ought  ter  gin’t  to  yer  years  ago.  Mebbe  he  can’t 
help  himself  now,  but  I  feel  it's  wrong.  Nothing  can’t  beat 
that  ar  out  o’  me.  Sich  a  faithful  crittur  as  ye’ve  been, — and 
allers  sot  his  business  ’fore  yer  own  every  way,— and  reckoned 
on  him  more  than  yer  own  wife  and  chil’en!  Them  as  sells 
heart’s  love  and  heart’s  blood,  to  get  out  thar  scrapes,  de 
Lord  ’ll  be  up  to  ’em!  ” 

“  Chloe!  now,  if  ye  love  me,  ye  won’t  talk  so,  when  per¬ 
haps  jest  the  last  time  we’ll  ever  have  together!  And  I’ll 
tell  ye,  Chloe,  it  goes  agin  me  to  hear  one  word  agin  mas’r. 
Warn’t  he  put  in  my  arms  a  baby? — it’s  natur  I  should  think 
a  heap  of  him.  And  he  couldn’t  be  spec  ted  to  think  so  much 
of  poor  Tom.  Mas’rs  is  used  to  havin’  all  these  yer  things 
done  for  ’em,  and  nat’lly  they  don’t  think  so  much  on’t. 
They  can’t  be  spected  to,  noway.  Set  him  ’longside  of  other 
mas’rs, — who’s  had  the  treatment  and  the  livin’  I’ve  had? 
And  he  never  would  have  let  this  yer  come  on  me,  if  he  could 
have  seed  it  aforehand.  I  know  he  wouldn’t.” 

“  Wal,  anyway,  thar’s  wrong  about  it  somewhar ,”  said  Aunt 
Chloe,  in  whom  a  stubborn  sense  of  justice  was  a  predomi¬ 
nant  trait;  “  I  can’t  jest  make  out  what  ’tis,  but  thar’s  wrong 
somewhar,  I’m  clar  o’  that.” 

“  Yer  ought  ter  look  up  to  the  Lord  above,— he’s  above 
all, — thar  don’t  a  sparrow  fall  without  him.” 

“  It  don’t  seem  to  comfort  me,  but  I  spect  it  orter,”  said 
Aunt  Chloe.  “  But  dar’s  no  use  talkin’;  I’ll  jes  wet  up  de 
corn-cake,  and  get  ye  one  good  breakfast,  ’cause  nobody 
knows  when  you’ll  get  another.” 

In  order  to  appreciate  the  sufferings  of  the  negroes  sold 
South,  it  must  be  remembered  that  all  the  instinctive  affec¬ 
tions  of  that  race  are  peculiarly  strong.  Their  local  attach¬ 
ments  are  very  abiding.  They  are  not  naturally  daring  and 
enterprising,  but  home-loving  and  affectionate.  Add  to  this 
all  the  terrors  with  which  ignorance  invests  the  unknown,  and 
add  to  this,  again,  that  selling  to  the  South  is  set  before  the 
negro  from  childhood  as  the  last  severity  of  punishment. 
The  threat  that  terrifies  more  than  whipping  or  torture  o I 


©6  UNCLE  tom’s  cabiit;  OB* 

any  kind  is  the  thre&t  of  being  sent  down  the  river.  We  have 
ourselves  heard  this  feeling  expressed  by  them*  and  seen  the 
unaffected  horror  with  which  they  will  sit  in  their  gossiping 
hours*  and  tell  frightful  stories  of  that  “  down  river,”  which 
to  them  is — 

“  That  undiscovered  country,  from  whose  bourn 
No  traveler  returns/* 

A  missionary  among  the  fugitives  in  Canada  told  us  that 
many  of  the  fugitives  confessed  themselves  to  have  escaped 
from  comparatively  kind  masters,  and  that  they  were  induced 
to  brave  the  perils  of  escape,  in  almost  every  case,  by  the  des¬ 
perate  horror  with  which  they  regarded  being  sold  South,— 
a  doom  which  was  hanging  either  over  themselves  or  their 
husbands,  their  wives  or  children.  This  nerves  the  African, 
naturally  patient,  timid,  and  unenterprising,  with  heroic 
courage,  and  leads  him  to  suffer  hunger,  cold,  pain,  the  perils 
of  the  wilderness,  and  the  more  dread  penalties  of  recapture. 

The  simple  morning  meal  now  smoked  on  the  table,  for 
Mrs.  Shelby  had  excused  Aunt  Chloe’s  attendance  at  the 
great  house  that  morning.  The  poor  soul  had  expended  all 
her  little  energies  on  this  farewell  feast, — had  killed  and 
dressed  her  choicest  chicken,  and  prepared  her  corn-cake  with 
scrupulous  exactness,  just  to  her  husband’s  taste,  and  brought, 
out  certain  mysterious  jars  on  the  mantelpiece,  some  pre¬ 
serves  that  were  never  produced  except  on  extreme  occasions. 

“Lor,  Pete,”  said  Mose  triumphantly,  “han’t  we  got  a 
buster  of  a  breakfast!  ”  at  the  same  time  catching  at  a  frag¬ 
ment  of  the  chicken. 

Aunt  Chloe  gave  him  a  sudden  box  on  the  ear.  “  Thar 
now!  crowing  over  the  last  breakfast  yer  poor  daddy’s  gwine 
to  have  to  home!  ” 

“Oh,  Chloe!”  said  Tom  gently. 

“  Wal,  I  can’t  help  it,”  said  Aunt  Chloe,  hiding  her  face  in 
her  apron;  “  I’s  so  tossed  about,  it  makes  me  act  ugly.” 

The  hoys  stood  quite  still,  looking  first  at  their  father  and 
then  at  their  mother,  while  the  baby,  climbing  up  her  clothes, 
began  an  imperious,  commanding  cry. 

“  Thar!  ”  said  Aunt  Chloe,  wiping  her  eyes  and  taking  up 
the  baby;  “now  I’s  done,  I  hope— now  do  eat  something. 
This  yer’s  my  nicest  chicken.  Thar,  boys,  ye  shall  have 
some,  poor  critturs!  Yer  mammy’s  been  cross  to  yer.” 

The  boys  needed  no  second  invitation,  and  went  in  with 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY. 

great  zeal  for  the  eatables;  and  it  was  well  they  did  so.,  as 
otherwise  there  would  have  been  very  little  performed  to  any 
purpose  by  the  party. 

“Now,”  said  Aunt  Chloe,  bustling  about  after  breakfast, 
“  I  must  put  up  yer  clothes.  Jest  like  as  not  he’ll  take  ’em 
all  away.  I  know  thar  ways,— mean  as  dirt,  they  is!  Wal, 
now,  yer  flannels  for  rhumatis  is  in  this  corner;  so  be  car’ful, 
’cause  there  won’t  nobody  make  ye  no  more.  Then  here’s  yer 
old  shirts,  and  these  yer  is  new  ones,  I  toed  off  these  yer 
stockings  last  night,  and  put  de  ball  in  ’em  to  mend  with. 
But  Lor!  who’ll  ever  mend  for  ye?”  and  Aunt  Chloe,  again 
overcome,  laid  her  head  on  the  box  side,  and  sobbed.  “  To 
think  on’t!  no  crittur  to  do  for  ye,  sick  or  well!  I  donH 
railly  think  I  ought  ter  be  good  now!  ” 

The  boys,  having  eaten  everything  there  was  on  the  break¬ 
fast-table,  began  now  to  take  some  thought  of  the  case;  and 
seeing  their  mother  crying,  and  their  father  looking  very  sad^ 
began  to  whimper  and  put  their  hands  to  their  eyes.  Undo 
Tom  had  the  baby  on  his  knee,  and  was  letting  her  enjoy 
herself  to  the  utmost  extent,  scratching  his  face  and  pulling 
his  hair,  and  occasionally  breaking  out  into  clamorous  explo¬ 
sions  of  delight,  evidently  arising  out  of  her  own  internal 
reflections. 

“  Ay,  crow  away,  poor  crittur!  ”  said  Aunt  Chloe;  “  ye’ll 
have  to  come  to  it,  too!  ye’ll  live  to  see  your  husband  sold,  or 
mebbe  be  sold  yourself;  and  these  yer  boys,  they’s  to  be  sold, 
I  s’pose,  too,  jest  like  as  not,  when  dey  gets  good  for  some¬ 
thin’:  an’t  no  use  in  niggers  havin’  nothin’!  ” 

Here  one  of  the  boys  called  out,  “  Thar’s  missis  a-comm’ 
in!  ” 

“  She  can’t  do  no  good;  -what’s  she  coming  for?  ”  said  Aunt 
Chlce. 

Mrs.  Shelby  entered.  Aunt  Chloe  set  a  chair  for  her  in  a 
manner  decidedly  gruff  and  crusty.  She  did  not  seem  to 
notice  either  the  action  or  the  manner.  She  looked  pale  and 
anxious. 

“  Tom,”  she  said,  “  I  come  to  ’’—and  stopping  suddenly, 
and  regarding  the  silent  group,  she  sat  down  in  the  chair, 
and,  covering  her  face  with  her  handkerchief,  began  to  sob. 

“  Lor,  now,  missis,  don’t— don’t!  ”  said  Aunt  Chloe,  burst¬ 
ing  out  in  her  turn;  and  for  a  few  moments  they  all  wept  in 
company.  And  in  those  tears  they  all  shed  together,  the 
high  and  the  lowly,  melted  away  all  the  heart-burnings  and 


m 


UNCLE#  TOM*S  CABIN  ;  OR, 

anger  of  the  oppressed.  Oh,  ye  who  visit  the  distressed,  cfo 
ye  know  that  everything  your  money  can  buy,  given  with  a 
cold,  averted  face,  is  not  worth  one  honest  tear  shed  in  real 
sympathy? 

“  My  good  fellow,”  said  Mrs.  Shelby,  “  I  can’t  give  you  any¬ 
thing  to  do  you  any  good.  If  I  give  you  money,  it  will  only 
be  taken  from  you.  But  I  tell  you  solemnly,  and  before  God, 
that  I  will  keep  trace  of  you,  and  bring  you  back  as  soon  as  I 
can  command  the  money;— and  till  then,  trust  in  God!  ” 

Here  the  boys  called  out  that  Mas’r  Haley  was  coming,  and 
then  an  unceremonious  kick  pushed  open  the  door.  Haley 
stood  there  in  very  ill  humor,  having  ridden  hard  the  night 
before,  and  being  not  at  all  pacified  by  his  ill  success  in  re¬ 
capturing  his  prey. 

“  Come,”  said  he,  “ye  nigger,  ye’re  ready?  Servant, 
ma’am!  ”  said  he,  taking  off  his  hat,  as  he  saw  Mrs.  Shelby. 

Aunt  Chloe  shut  and  corded  the  box,  and  getting  up, 
looked  gruffly  on  the  trader,  her  tears  seeming  suddenly 
turned  to  sparks  of  fire. 

Tom  rose  up  meekly  to  follow  his  new  master,  and  raised 
up  his  heavy  box  on  his  shoulder.  His  wife  took  the  baby  in 
her  aims  to  go  with  him  to  the  wagon,  and  the  children,  still 
crying,  trailed  on  behind. 

Mrs.  Shelby,  walking  up  to  the  trader,  detained  him  for  a 
few  moments,  talking  with  him  in  an  earnest  manner;  and 
while  she  was  thus  talking,  the  whole  family  party  proceeded 
to  a  wagon  that  stood  ready  harnessed  at  the  door.  A  crowd 
of  all  the  old  and  young  hands  on  the  place  stood  gathered 
around  it,  to  bid  farewell  to  their  old  associate.  Tom  had 
been  looked  up  to,  both  as  a  head  servant  and  a  Christian 
teacher,  by  all  the  place,  and  there  was  much  honest  sym¬ 
pathy  and  grief  about  him,  particularly  among  the  women. 

“  Why,  Chloe,  you  bar  it  better’n  we  do!  ”  said  one  of  the 
women,  who  had  been  weeping  freely,  noticing  the  gloomy 
calmness  with  which  Aunt  Chloe  stood  by  the  wagon. 

“  I’s  done  my  tears!  ”  she  said,  looking  grimly  at  the 
trader,  who  was  coming  up.  “  I  does  not  feel  to  cry  ’fore 
that  ar  old  limb,  nohow!  ” 

“  Get  in!  ”  said  Haley  to  Tom,  as  he  strode  through  thr 
crowd  of  servants,  who  looked  at  him  with  lowering  brows. 

Tom  got  in,  and  Haley,  drawing  out  from  under  the  wagon 
seat  a  heavy  pair  of  shackles,  made  them  fast  around  each 

auMe* 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY, 


m 

A  smothered  groan  of  indignation  ran  through  the  whole 
circle,  and  Mrs.  Shelby  spoke  from  the  veranda,— 

“  Mr.  Haley,  I  assure  you  that  precaution  is  entirely  un¬ 
necessary.” 

“  Don’t  know,  ma’am;  I’ve  lost  one  five  hundred  dollars 
from  this  yer  place,  and  I  can’t  afford  to  run  no  more  risks.” 

“What  else  could  she  spect  on  him?”  said  Aunt  Chloe 
indignantly,  while  the  two  boys,  who  now  seemed  to  com¬ 
prehend  at  once  their  father’s  destiny,  clung  to  her  gown, 
sobbing  and  groaning  vehemently. 

“  I’m  sorry,”  said  Tom,  “  that  Mas’r  George  happened  to 
be  away.” 

George  had  gone  to  spend  two  or  three  days  with  a  com¬ 
panion  on  a  neighboring  estate,  and  having  departed  early  in 
the  morning,  before  Tom’s  misfortune  had  been  made  public, 
had  left  without  hearing  of  it. 

“  Give  my  love  to  Mas’r  George,”  he  said  earnestly. 

Haley  whipped  up  the  horse,  and,  with  a  steady  mournful 
look,  fixed  to  the  last  on  the  old  place,  Tom  was  whirled  away. 

Mr.  Shelby  at  this  time  was  not  at  home.  He  had  sold 
Tom  under  the  spur  of  a  driving  necessity,  to  get  out  of  the 
power  of  a  man  whom  he  dreaded,— and  his  first  feeling,  after 
the  consummation  of  the  bargain,  had  been  that  of  relief. 
But  his  wife’s  expostulations  awoke  his  half-slumbering  re¬ 
gret;  and  Tom’s  manly  disinterestedness  increased  the  un¬ 
pleasantness  of  his  feelings.  It  was  in  vain  that  he  said  to 
himself  that  he  had  a  right  to  do  it, — that  everybody  did  it,— 
and  that  some  did  it  without  even  the  excuse  of  necessity;— 
he  could  not  satisfy  his  own  feelings;  and  that  he  might  not 
witness  the  unpleasant  scenes  of  the  consummation,  he  had 
gone  on  a  short  business  tour  up  the  country,  hoping  that  all 
would  be  over  before  he  returned. 

Tom  and  Haley  rattled  on  along  the  dusty  road,  whirling 
past  every  old  familiar  spot,  until  the  bounds  of  the  estate 
were  fairly  passed,  and  they  found  themselves  out  on  the  open 
pike.  After  they  had  ridden  about  a  mile,  Haley  suddenly 
drew  up  at  the  door  of  a  blacksmith  shop  when,  taking  out 
with  him  a  pair  of  handcuffs,  he  stepped  into  the  shop  to 
have  a  little  alteration  in  them. 

“  These  yen’s  a  little  too  small  for  his  build,”  said  Haley, 
showing  the  fetters,  and  pointing  out  to  Tom. 

“Lor!  now,  if  thar  an’t  Shelby’s  Tom.  He  han’t 
him?  now?  ”  said  the  tfnitibu 


ioo 


UNCLE  Toil’s  cabin;  cbs 

“  Yes,  he  has,”  said  Halej. 

“  Now,  ye  don’t!  well,  reely,”  said  the  smith,  “  who’d  V 
thought  it!  Why,  ye  needn’t  go  to  fetterin’  him  up  this  yer 
way.  He’s  the  faithfullest,  best  crittur— — ” 

“  Yes,  yes,”  said  Haley,  “  but  your  good  fellers  are  just  the 
eritturs  to  want  to  run  off.  Them  stupid  ones,  as  doesn’t 
care  whar  they  go,  and  shif  less,  drunken  ones,  as  don’t  care 
for  nothin’,  they  stick  by,  and  like  as  not  be  rather  pleased  to 
be  toted  round;  but  these  yer  prime  fellers,  they  hates  it  like 
sin.  No  way  but  to  fetter  ’em;  got  legs— they’ll  use  ’em— 
no  mistake.” 

■‘Well,”  said  the  smith,  feeling  among  his  tools,  “them 
plantations  down  thar,  stranger,  an’t  jest  the  place  a  Kentuek 
nigger  wants  to  go  to;  they  dies  thar  toTable  fast,  don’t 
they?  ” 

“  Wal,  yes,  tol’able  fast,  then  dying  is;  what  with  the 
’climating  and  one  thing  and  another,  they  dies  so  as  to  keep 
the  market  up  pretty  brisk,”  said  Haley. 

“  Wal,  now,  a  feller  can’t  help  thinkin’  it’s  a  mighty  pity 
to  have  a  nice,  quiet,  likely  feller,  as  good  un  as  Tom  is,  go 
down  to  be  fairly  ground  up  on  one  of  them  ar  sugar  planta¬ 
tions.” 

“  Wal,  he’s  got  a  fa’r  chance.  I  promised  to  do  well  by 
him.  I’ll  get  him  in  house-servant  in  some  good  old  family, 
and  then,  if  he  stands  the  fever,  and  ’climating,  he’ll  have  a 
berth  good  as  any  nigger  ought  ter  ask  for.” 

“  He  leaves  his  wife  and  chil’en  up  here,  s’pose?” 

“Yes;  but  he’ll  get  another  thar.  Lord,  thar’s  women 
enough  everywhere,”  said  Haley. 

Tom  was  sitting  very  mournfully  on  the  outside  of  the  shop 
while  this  conversation  was  going  on.  Suddenly  he  heard 
the  quick,  short  click  of  a  horse’s  hoofs  behind  him;  and,  be¬ 
fore  he  could  fairly  awake  from  his  surprise,  young  Master 
George  sprang  into  the  wagon,  threw  his  arms  tumultuously 
round  his  neck,  and  was  solohing  and  scolding  with  energy. 

“  I  declare,  it’s  real  mean!  I  don’t  care  what  they  say,  any 
of  ’em!  It’s  a  nasty,  mean  shame!  If  I  was  a  man,  they 
shouldn’t  do  it,  they  should  not,  so !  ”  said  George,  with  a 
kind  of  subdued  howl. 

“Oh,  Mas’r  George!  this  does  me  good!”  said  Tom.  “I 
couldn’t  bar  to  go  off  without  seein’  ye!  It  does  me  real 
good,  ye  can’t  tell!  ”  Here  Tom  made  some  movement  of  Mi 
feet,  and  George’s  eye  fell  on  the  fetters. 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY.  101 

“What  a  shame!  ”  he  exclaimed,  lifting  his  hands.  “I’ll 
knock  that  old  fellow  down, — I  will! ” 

“  No,  yon  won’t,  Mas’r  George;  and  you  must  not  talk  so 
loud.  It  won’t  help  me  any,  to  anger  him.” 

“  Well,  I  won’t,  then,  for  your  sake;  but  only  to  think  of 
it, — isn’t  it  a  shame?  They  never  sent  for  me,  nor  sent  me 
any  word,  and,  if  it  hadn’t  been  for  Tom  Lincon,  I  shouldn’t 
have  heard  it.  I  tell  you,  I  blew  ’em  up  well,  all  of  ’em,  at 
home!  ” 

“  That  ar  wasn’t  right,  I’m  ’feared,  Mas’r  George.” 

“  Can’t  help  it!  I  say  it’s  a  shame!  Look  here,  Uncle 
Torn,”  said  he,  turning  his  back  to  the  shop,  and  speaking 
in  a  mysterious  tone,  “  Fve  brought  you  my  dollar!  ” 

“  Oh,  I  couldn’t  think  o’  talcin’  on’t,  Mas’r  George,  no  ways 
in  the  world!  ”  said  Tom,  quite  moved. 

“  But  you  shall  take  it!  ”  said  George.  “  Look  here, — I 
told  Aunt  Chloe  I’d  do  it,  and  she  advised  me  just  to  make  a 
hole  in  it,  and  put  a  string  through,  so  you  could  hang  it 
round  your  neck,  and  keep  it  out  of  sight;  else  this  mean 
scamp  would  take  it  away.  I  tell  ye,  Tom,  I  want  to  blow 
him  up!  it  would  do  me  good!  ” 

“  No,  don’t,  Mas’r  George,  for  it  won’t  do  me  any  good.” 

“Well,  I  won’t,  for  your  sake,”  said  George,  busily  tying 
his  dollar  round  Tom’s  neck;  “  but  there,  now,  button  your 
coat  tight  over  it,  and  keep  it,  and  remember,  every  time  you 
see  it,  that  I’ll  come  down  after  you,  and  bring  you  back. 
Aunt  Chloe  and  I  have  been  talking  about  it.  I  told  her 
not  to  fear:  I’ll  see  to  it,  and  I’ll  tease  father’s  life  out,  if  he 
don’t  do  it.” 

“  Oh,  Mas’r  George,  ye  mustn’t  talk  so  ’bout  yer  father! 99 

“  Lor,  Uncle  Tom,  I  don’t  mean  anything  bad.” 

“  And  now,  Mas’r  George,”  said  Tom,  “  ye  must  be  a  good 
boy;  ’member  how  many  hearts  is  sot  on  ye.  Al’ays  keep 
close  to  yer  mother.  Don’t  be  gettin’  into  any  of  them 
foolish  ways  boys  has  of  gettin’  too  big  to  mind  their  mothers. 
Tell  ye  what,  Mas’r  George,  the  Lord  gives  good  many  things 
twice  over;  but  he  don’t  give  ye  a  mother  but  once.  Ye’ll 
never  see  sich  another  woman,  Mas’r  George,  if  ye  live  to  be 
a  hundred  years  old.  So,  now,  you  hold  on  to  her,  and  grow 
up,  and  be  a  comfort  to  her,  thar’s  my  own  good  boy,— you 
will  now,  w7on’t  ye?” 

“  Yes,  I  will,  Uncle  Tom.,”  said  George  seriously. 

“And  be  careful  of  yer  speaking,  Mwr  George.  Young 


102 


UNCLE  TOM’S  w/ABIN  ;  OB, 


boys,  when  they  comes  to  your  age,  is  willful,  sometimes,—* 
it  s  natur  they  should  be.  But  real  gentlemen,  such  as  I 
hopes  you'll  be,  never  lets  fall  no  words  that  isn't  'spectful  to 
tnar  parents.  Ye  an't  'fended,  Mas'r  George?" 

“  No,  indeed,  Uncle  Tom;  you  always  did  give  me  good 
advice." 

“  JL's  older,  ye  know,"  said  Tom,  stroking  the  boy’s  fine* 
curly  head  with  his  large,  strong  hand,  but  speaking  in  a 
voxce  as  tender  as  a  woman's,  “  and  I  sees  all  that's  bound  up 
in  you.  Oh,  Mas'r  George,  you  has  everything, — Famin'* 
privileges,  readin',  writin',— and  you'll  grow  up  to  be  a  great, 
learned,  good  man,  and  all  the  people  on  the  place  and  your 
mother  and  father  'll  be  so  proud  on  ye!  Be  a  good  mas'r, 
like  yer  father;  and  be  a  Christian,  like  your  mother.  'Mem* 
ber  yer  Creator  in  the  days  o'  yer  youth,  Mas'r  George." 

“  I'll  be  real  good.  Uncle  Tom,  I  tell  you,"  said  George. 
“  I'm  going  be  a  first-rater;  and  don't  you  be  discouraged* 
I’ll  have  you  back  to  the  place,  yet.  As  I  told  Aunt  Chloe 
this  morning,  I’ll  build  your  house-  all  over,  and  you  shall 
have  a  room  for  a  parlor  with  a  carpet  on  it,  when  I'm  a 
man.  Oh,  you'll  have  good  times  yet!  " 

Haley  now  came  to  the  door,  with  the  handcuffs  in  his 
hands. 

“  Look  here,  now,  mister,"  said  George,  with  an  air  of  great 
superiority,  as  he  got  cut,  “I  shall  let  father  and  mother5 
know  how  you  treat  Uncle  Tom! " 

“  You're  welcome,"  said  the  trader. 

“  I  should  think  you'd  be  ashamed  to  spend  all  your  life 
buying  men  and  women,  and  chaining  them,  like  cattle.  I 
should  think  you’d  feel  mean!  "  said  George. 

“  So  long  as  your  grand  folks  wants  to  buy  men  and 
women,  I'm  as  good  as  they  is,"  said  Haley;  “’tan’t  any 
meaner  sellin'  'em  than  'tis  buyin'!  " 

“  I’ll  never  do  either,  when  I'm  a  man."  said  George;  “  I’m 
ashamed,  this  day,  that  I'm  a  Kentuckian.  I  always  was 
proud  of  it  before;"  and  George  sat  very  straight  on  his 
horse,  and  looked  round  with  an  air  as  if  he  expected  the 
•State  would  be  impressed  with  his  opinion. 

“Well,  good-by.  Uncle  Tom;  keep  a  stiff  upper  lip,"  said 
George. 

“  Good-by,  Mas'r  George,"  said  Tom,  looking  fondly  and 
admiringly  at  him.  “  God  Almighty  bless  you!  Ah!  Ken¬ 
tucky  han't  got  many  like  you! "  he  said,  in  the  fullness  of 


LIFE  AMONG  THIS  LOWLY, 


203 


his  heart,  as  the  frank,  boyish  face  was  lost  to  his  view. 
Away  he  went,  and  Tom  looked,  till  the  clatter  of  his  horse's 
heels  died  away,  the  last  sound  or  sight  of  his  home.  But 
over  his  heart  there  seemed  to  be  a  warm  spot,  where  those 
young  hands  had  placed  that  precious  dollar.  Too  put  up 
his  hand,  and  held  it  close  to  his  heart. 

“  Now,  i  tell  ye  what,  Tom,”  said  Haley,  as  he  came  up  to 
the  wagon,  and  threw  in  the  handcuffs,  “  X  mean  to  start  f aT 
with  ye,  as  X  genially  do  with  my  niggers;  and  I’ll  tell  ye 
now,  to  bugin  with,  you  treat  me  fa’r  and  1*11  treat  you  fa’r; 
I  an’t  never  hard  on  my  niggers.  Calculates  to  do  the  best 
for  ’em  I  can.  Now,  ye  see,  you’d  better  jest  settle  down 
comfortable,  and  not  be  tryin’  no  tricks;  because  nigger’s 
tricks  of  all  sorts  I’m  up  to,  and  it’s  no  use.  If  niggers  is 
quiet,  and  don’t  try  to  get  off,  they  has  good  times  with  me; 
and  if  they  don’t,  why,  it’s  thar  fault,  and  not  mine.” 

Tom  assured  Haley  that  he  had  no  present  intentions  of 
running  off.  In  fact,  the  exhortation  seemed  rather  a  super¬ 
fluous  one  to  a  man  with  a  great  pair  of  iron  fetters  on  his 
feet.  But  Mr.  Haley  had  got  in  the  habit  of  commencing 
his  relations  with  his  stock  with  little  exhortations  of  this 
nature,  calculated,  as  he  deemed,  to  inspire  cheerfulness  and 
confidence,  and  prevent  the  necessity  of  any  unpleasant 
scenes. 

And  here,  for  the  present,  we  take  our  leave  of  Tom,  to 
pursue  the  fortunes  of  other  characters  in  our  story. 


CHAPTER  XL 

IN  WHICH  PROPERTY  GETS  INTO  AN  IMPROPER  STATE 
OF  MIND. 

It  was  late  in  a  drizzly  afternoon  that  a  traveler  alighted  at 

the  door  of  a  small  country  hotel  in  the  village  of  N - ,  in 

Kentucky.  In  the  bar-room  he  found  assembled  quite  a 
miscellaneous  company,  whom  stress  of  weather  had  driven 
to  harbor,  and  the  place  presented  the  usual  scenery  of  such 
reunions.  Great,  tall,  raw-boned  Kentuckians,  attired  in 
hunting-shirts,  and  trailing  their  loose  joints  over  a  vast  ex¬ 
tent  of  territory,  with  the  easy  lounge  peculiar  to  the  race,— 
rifles  stacked  away  in  the  corner,  shot-pouches,  game-bags, 
hunting-dogs,  and  little  negroes,  all  rolled  together  in  the 


104 


uncles  tom’s  cabin;  OB, 

comers,— were  the  characteristic  features  of  the  picture.  At 
each  end  of  the  fireplace  sat  a  long-legged  gentleman,  with 
his  chair  tipped  hack,  his  hat  on  his  head,  and  the  heels  of 
his  muddy  hoots  reposing  sublimely  on  the  mantelpiece, — 
a  position,  we  will  inform  our  readers,  decidedly  favorable  to 
the  turn  of  reflection  incident  to  Western  travelers,  where 
travelers  exhibit  a  decided  preference  for  this  particular  mode 
of  elevating  their  understandings. 

Mine  host,  who  stood  behind  the  bar,  like  most  of  his 
countrymen,  was  great  of  stature,  good-natured,  and  loose- 
jointed,  with  an  enormous  shock  of  hair  on  his  head,  and  a 
great  tall  hat  on  the  top  of  that. 

In  fact,  everybody  in  the  room  bore  on  his  head  this  char¬ 
acteristic  emblem  of  man’s  sovereignty;  whether  it  were  felt 
hat,  palm-leaf,  greasy  beaver,  or  fine  new  chapeau,  there  it 
reposed  with  true  republican  independence.  In  truth,  it  ap¬ 
peared  to  he  the  characteristic  mark  of  every  individual. 
Some  wore  them  tipped  rakishly  to  one  side, — these  were 
your  men  of  humor,  jolly,  free-and-easy  dogs;  some  had  them 
jammed  independently  down  over  their  noses, — these  were 
your  hard  characters,  thorough  men,  who,  when  they  wore 
their  hats,  wanted  to  wear  them,  and  to>  wear  them  just  as 
they  had  a  mind  to;  there  were  those  who  had  them  set  far 
over  back,— wide-awake  men,  who  wanted  a  clear  prospect; 
while  careless  men,  who  did  not  know,  or  care,  liow  their  hats 
sat,  had  them  shaking  about  in  all  directions.  The  various 
hats,  in  fact,  were  quite  a  Shaksperean  study. 

Divers  negroes,  in  very  free-and-easy  pantaloons,  and  with 
no  redundance  in  the  shirt  line,  were  scuttling  about,  hither 
and  thither,  without  bringing  to  pass  any  very  particular  re¬ 
sults,  except  expressing  a  generic  willingness  to  turn  over 
everything  in  creation  generally  for  the  benefit  of  mas’r  and 
his  guests.  Add  to  this  picture  a  jolly,  crackling,  rollicking 
fire,  going  rejoicingly  up  a  great  wide  chimney, — the  outer 
door  and  every  window  being  set  wide  open,  and  the  calico 
window-curtains  flopping  and  snapping  in  a  good  stiff  breeze 
of  damp,  raw  air, — and  you  have  an  idea  of  the  jollities  of  a 
Kentucky  tavern. 

Your  Kentuckian  of  the  present  day  is  a  good  illustration 
of  the  doctrine  of  transmitted  instincts  and  peculiarities. 
His  fathers  were  mighty  hunters, — men  who  lived  in  the 
woods,  and  slept  under  the  free,  open  heavens,  with  the  stars 
to  hold  their  candles;  and  their  descendant  to  this,  daj; 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY.  IG§ 

always  acts  as  if  the  house  were  his  camp,-— wears  his  hat  at 
ml  hours,  tumbles  himself  about,  and  puts  his  heels  on  the 
tops  of  chairs  or  mantelpieces,  just  as  his  father  rolled  on 
the  greensward,  and  put  his  upon  trees  and  logs, — keeps  all 
the  windows  and  doors  open,  winter  and  summer,  that  he 
may  get  air  enough  for  his  great  lungs, — calls  everybody 
“  stranger,”  with  nonchalant  bonhomie ,  and  is  altogether  the 
frankest,  easiest,  most  jovial  creature  living. 

Into  such  an  assembly  of  the  free-and-easy  our  traveler 
entered.  He  was  a  short,  thick-set  man,  carefully  dressed, 
with  a  round,  good-natured  countenance,  and  something 
rather  fussy  and  particular  in  his  appearance.  He  was  very 
careful  of  is  valise  and  umbrella,  bringing  them  in  with  his 
own  hands,  and  resisting  pertinaciously  all  offers  from  the 
various  servants  to  relieve  him  of  them.  He  looked  round 
the  bar-room  with  rather  an  anxious  air,  and,  retreating  with 
his  valuables  to  the  warmest  corner,  disposed  them  under  his 
chair,  sat  down,  and  looked  rather  apprehensively  up  at  the 
worthy  whose  heels  illustrated  the  end  of  the  mantelpiece, 
who  was  spitting  from  right  to  left  with  a  courage  and 
energy  rather  alarming  to  gentlemen  of  weak  nerves  and  par¬ 
ticular  habits. 

“  I  say,  stranger,  how  are  ye?  ”  said  the  aforesaid  gentle- 

mam,  firing  an  honorary  salute  of  tobacco-juice  in  the  direc¬ 
tion  of  the  new  arrival. 

“  Well,  I  reckon,”  was  the  reply  of  the  other,  as  he  dodged, 
with  some  alarm,  the  threatening  honor. 

“  Any  news?  ”  said  the  respondent,  taking  out  a  strip  of 
tobacco  and  a  large  hunting-knife  from  his  pocket. 

"  Not  that  I  know  of,”  said  the  man. 

"Chaw?”  said  the  first  speaker,  handing  the  old  gentle¬ 
man  a  bit  of  his  tobacco,  with  a  decidedly  brotherly  air. 

"  No,  thank  ye,* — it  don’t  agree  with  me,”  said  the  little 

man,  edging  off. 

"  Don’t,  eh?  ”  said  the  other  easily,  and  stowing  away  the 
morsel  in  his  own  mouth,  in  order  to  keep  up  the  supply  of 
tobacco-juice  for  the  general  benefit  of  society. 

The  old  gentleman  uniformly  gave  a  little  start  whenever 
his  long-sided  brother  fired  in  his  direction;  and  this  being 
observed  by  his  companion,  he  very  good-naturedly  turned 
his  artillery  to  another  quarter,  and  proceeded  to  storm  cr,a 
of  the  fire-irons  with  a  degree  of  military  talent  fully  suffi¬ 
cient  to  take  a  city. 


100  tools  tom9s  cabin;  or, 

“  What’s  that? ”  said  the  old  gentleman,  observing  som© 
of  the  company  formed  in  a  group  around  a  large  handbill. 

“  Nigger  advertised: 99  said  one  of  the  company  briefly. 

Mr.  Wilson,  for  that  was  the  old  gentleman’s  name,  rose 
up,  and,  after  carefully  adjusting  his  valise  and  umbrella, 
proceeded  deliberately  to  take  out  his  spectacles  and  fix  them 
on  his  nose;  and  this  operation  being  performed,  read  as 
follows: 

“  Run  away  from  the  subscriber,  my  mulatto  boy  George.  Said 
George  six  feet  in  height,  a  very  light  mulatto,  brown  curly  hair ;  is 
very  intelligent,  speaks  handsomely,  can  read  and  write  ;  will  probably 
try  to  pass  for  a  white  man  ;  is  deeply  scarred  on  his  back  and  shoul¬ 
ders  ;  has  been  branded  in  his  right  hand  with  the  letter  H. 

“  I  will  give  four  hundred  dollars  for  him  alive,  and  the  same  sum  for 
satisfactory  proof  that  helms  been  killed.” 

The  old  gentleman  read  this  advertisement  from  end  to 
end,  in  a  low  voice,  as  if  he  were  studying  it. 

The  long-legged  veteran  who  had  been  besieging  the  fire- 
iron,  as  before  related,  now  took  down  his  cumbrous  length, 
and,  rearing  aloft  his  tall  form,  walked  up  to  the  advertise¬ 
ment,  and  very  deliberately  spit  a  full  discharge  of  tobacco- 
juice  on  it. 

“  There’s  my  mind  upon  that! 99  said  he  briefly,  and  sat 
down  again. 

“  Why,  now,  stranger,  what’s  that  for? 99  said  mine  host. 

“  I’d  do  it  all  the  same  to  the  writer  of  that  ar  paper,  if  he 
was  here,”  said  the  long  man,  coolly  resuming  his  old  employ¬ 
ment  of  cutting  tobacco.  “  Any  man  that  owns  a  boy  like 
that,  and  can’t  find  any  better  way  o’  treating  him,  deserves 
to  lose  him.  Such  papers  as  these  is  a  shame  to  Kentucky; 
that’s  my  mind  right  out,  if  anybody  wants  to  know.” 

“  Well,  now,  that’s  a  fact,”  said  mine  host,  as  he  made  an 
entry  in  his  book. 

“  I’ve  got  a  gang  o’  boys,  sir,”  said  the  long  man.  resum¬ 
ing  his  attack  on  the  fire-irons,  “  and  I  jest  tells  ’em,— 
‘Boys,’  says  I  .—  run!  now  dig!  put!  jest  when  ye  want  to! 
I  never  shall  come  to  look  after  you!  ’  That’s  the  way  I  keep 
•mine.  Let  ’em  know  they  are  free  to  run  any  time,  and  it 
jest  breaks  up  their  wanting  to.  More’n  all,  I’ve  got  free 
papers  for  ’em  all  recorded,  in  case  I  gets  keeled  up  any  o’ 
these  times,  and  they  knows  it;  and  I  tell  ye,  stranger,  there 
an’t  a  fellow  in  our  parts  gets  more  out  of  his  niggers  than  I 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY. 


101 


Ho.  Why, -my  boys  have  been  to  Cincinnati  with  five  hundred 
dollars"  worth  of  colts,  and  brought  me  back  the  money,  all 
straight,  time  and  agin.  It  stands  to  reason  they  should* 
Treat  ’em  like  dogs,  and  you’ll  have  dogs’  works  and  dogs* 
actions.  Treat  ’em  like  men,  and  you’ll  have  men’s  works/* 
And  the  honest  drover,  in  his  warmth,  indorsed  this  moral 
sentiment  by  firing  a  perfect  feu  de  joie  at  the  fireplace. 

“  I  think  you’re  altogether  right,  friend,”  said  Mr.  Wilson; 
“and  this  boy  described  here  is  a  fine  fellow,— no  mistake 
about  that.  He  worked  for  me  some  half  dozen  years  in  my 
bagging  factory,  and  he  was  my  best  hand,  sir.  He  is  an 
ingenious  fellow,  too:  he  invented  a  machine  for  the  clean¬ 
ing  of  hemp, — a  really  valuable  affair;  it’s  gone  into  several 
factories.  His  master  holds  the  patent  of  it,” 

“  I’ll  warrant  ye,”  said  the  drover,  “  holds  it  and  makes 
money  out  of  it,  and  then  turns  round  and  brands  the  boy  in 
his  right  Land.  If  I  had  a  fair  chance,  I’d  mark  him,  I 
reckon,  so  that  he’d  carry  it  one  while.” 

“  These  yer  knowin’  boys  is  allers  aggravatin’  and  sarcy,’* 
said  a  coarse-looking  fellow,  from  the  other  side  of  the  room; 
“that’s  why  they  gets  cut  up  and  marked  so.  If  they  be¬ 
haved  themselves,  they  wouldn’t.” 

“  That  is  to  say,  the  Lord  made  ’em  men,  and  it’s  a  hard 
squeeze  gettin’  ’em  down  into  beasts,”  said  the  drover  dryly* 

“  Bright  niggers  isn’t  no  kind  of  ’vantage  to  their  masters,’* 
continued  the  other,  well  intrenched,  in  a  coarse,  unconscious 
obtuseness,  from  the  contempt  of  his  opponent;  “  what’s  the 
use  o’  talents  and  them  things,  if  you  can’t  get  the  use  on  ’em 
yourself?  Why,  all  the  use  they  make  on’t  is  to  get  round 
you.  I’ve  had  one  or  two  of  these  fellers,  and  I  jest  sold  ’em 
down  river.  I  knew  I’d  got  to  lose  ’em,  first  or  last,  if  I 
didn’t.” 

“  Better  send  orders  up  to  the  Lord  to  make  you  a  set  and 
leave  out  their  souls  entirely,”  said  the  drover. 

Here  the  conversation  was  interrupted  by  the  approach 
of  a  small  one-horse  buggy  to  the  inn.  It  had  a  genteel  ap¬ 
pearance,  and  a  well-dressed,  gentlemanly  man  sat  on  the 
seat,  with  a  colored  servant  driving. 

The  whole  party  examined  the  newcomer  with  the  interest 
with  which  a  set  of  loafers  on  a  rainy  day  usually  examines 
every  newcomer.  He  was  very  tall,  with  a  dark,  Spanish 
complexion,  fine,  expressive  black  eyes,  and  close-curling 
hair,  also  of  a  glossy  blackness.  His  well-formed  aquiline 


108 


uncle  tom’s  cabin;  ob, 

nose,  straight  thin  lips,  and  the  admirable  contour  of  his 
finely  formed  limbs,  impressed  the  whole  company  instantly 
with  the  idea  of  something  uncommon.  He  walked  easily  in 
among  the  company,  and  with  a  nod  indicating  to  the  waiter 
where  to  place  his  trunk,  bowed  to  the  company,  and,  with 
his  hat  in  his  hand,  walked  up  leisurely  to  the  bar,  and  gave 
in  his  name  as  Henry  Butler,  Oaklands,  Shelby  County'. 
Turning,  with  an  indifferent  air,  he  sauntered  up  to  the  ad¬ 
vertisement,  and  read  it  over. 

“  Jim,”  he  said  to  his  man,  “seems  to  me  we  met  a  boy 
something  like  this,  up  at  Bernan’s,  didn’t  we?  ” 

“  Yes,  xnas’r,”  said  Jim,  “  only  I  an’t  sure  about  the  hand.” 

“  Well,  I  didn’t  look,  of  course,”  said  the  stranger,  with  a 
careless  yawn.  Then,  walking  up  to  the  landlord,  he  desired 
him  to  fur  ish  him  with  a  private  apartment,  as  he  had  some 
writing  to  do  immediately. 

The  landlord  was  all  obsequiousness,  and  a  relay  of  about 
seven  negroes,  old  and  young,  male  and  female,  little  and  big, 
were  soon  whizzing  about  like  a  covey  of  partridges,  bustling, 
hurrying,  treading  on  each  others  toes,  and  tumbling  over 
each  other,  in  their  zeal  to  get  mas  Vs  100m  ready,  while  he 
seated  himself  easily  on  a  chair  in  the  middle  of  the  room, 
and  entered  into  conversation  with  the  man  who  sat  next  to 
him. 

The  manufacturer,  Mr.  Wilson,  from  the  time  of  the  en¬ 
trance  of  the  stranger,  had  regarded  him  with  an  air  of  dis¬ 
turbed  and  uneasy  curiosity.  He  seemed  to  himself  to  have 
met  and  been  acquainted  with  him  somewhere,  but  he  could 
not  recollect.  Every  few  moments,  when  the  man  spoke,  or 
moved,  or  smiled,  he  would  start  and  fix  his  eyes  on  him, 
and  then  suddenly  withdraw  them,  as  the  bright,  dark  eyes 
met  his  with  such  unconcerned  coolness.  At  last  a  sudden 
recollection  seemed  to  flash  upon  him,  for  he  stared  at  the 
stranger  with  such  an  air  of  blank  amazement  and  alarm 
that  he  walked  up  to  him. 

“  Mr.  Wilson,  I  think,”  said  he,  in  a  tone  of  recognition, 
and  extending  his  hand.  “  I  beg  your  pardon,  I  didn’t  recol¬ 
lect  you  before.  I  see  you  remember  me, — Mr.  Butler,  of 
Oaklands,  Shelby  County.” 

“  Ye — yes — yes,  sir,”  said  Mr.  Wilson,  like  one  speaking 
in  a  dream. 

Just  then  a  negro  boy  entered,  and  announced  that  masVs 
room  was  ready. 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY. 


109 


w  Jim,  see  to  the  trunks,”  said  the  gentleman  negligently; 
then  addressing  himself  to  Mr.  Wilson,  he  added, — ■“  I  should 
like  to  have  a  few  moments*  conversation  with  you  on  busi¬ 
ness  in  my  room,  if  you  please.** 

Mr.  Wilson  followed  him,  as  one  who  walks  in  his  sleep; 
and  they  proceeded  to  a  large  upper  chamber,  where  a  new- 
made  fire  was  crackling,  and  various  servants  flying  about, 
putting  finishing  touches  to  the  arrangements. 

When  all  was  done  and  the  servants  departed,  the  young 
man  deliberately  locked  the  door  and  putting  the  key  in  his 
pocket  faced  about,  and  folding  his  arms  on  his  bosom,  looked 
Mr.  Wilson  full  in  the  face. 

“  George!  **  said  Mr.  Wilson. 

“  Yes,  George,**  said  the  young  man. 

“  I  couldn’t  have  thought  it!  ** 

“  I*m  pretty  well  disguised,  I  fancy,**  said  the  young  man, 
with  a  smile.  “  A  little  walnut  bark  has  made  my  yellow 
skin  a  genteel  brown,  and  I’ve  dyed  my  hair  black;  so  you 
see  I  don’t  answer  to  the  advertisement  at  all.’* 

“  Oh,  George!  but  this  is  a  dangerous  game  you  are  play¬ 
ing.  I  could  not  have  advised  you  to  it.** 

“  I  can  do  it  on  my  own  responsibility,**  said  George,  with 
the  same  proud  smile. 

We  remark  en  passant ,  that  George  was,  by  his  father’s 
side,  of  white  descent.  His  mother  was  one  of  those  unfor¬ 
tunates  of  her  race,  marked  out  by  personal  beauty  to  be  the 
slave  of  the  passions  of  her  possessor,  and  the  mother  of  chil¬ 
dren  who  may  never  know  a  father.  From  one  of  the 
proudest  families  in  Kentucky  he  had  inherited  a  set  of  fine 
European  features  and  a  high,  indomitable  spirit.  From  his 
mother  he  had  received  only  a  slight  mulatto  tinge,  amply 
compensated  by  its  accompanying  rich,  dark  eye.  A  slight 
change  in  the  tint  of  the  skin  and  the  color  of  his  hair  had 
metamorphosed  him  into  the  Spanish-looking  fellow  he  then 
appeared;  and  as  gracefulness  of  movement  and  gentlemanly 
manners  had  always  been  perfectly  natural  to  him,  he  found 
no  difficulty  in  playing  the  bold  part  he  had  adopted,— that 
of  a  gentleman  traveling  with  his  domestic. 

Mr.  Wilson,  a  good-natured  but  extremely  fidgety  and  cau¬ 
tious  old  gentleman,  ambled  up  and  down  the  room,  appear¬ 
ing,  as  John  Bunyan  hath  it,  “  much  tumbled  up  and  down 
Li  his  mind/*  and  divided  between  his  wish  to  help  George 
and  a  certain  confused  notion  of  maintaining  law  and 


110  tTNCLltf  tom’s  CABIN;  OBg 

order;  so,  as  he  shambled  about,  he  delivered  himself  a S 
follows: 

“Well,-  George,  I  s’pose  you’re  running  away, — leaving 
your  lawful  master,  George, — I  don’t  wonder  at  it, — at  the 
same  time,  I’m  sorry,  George, — yes,  decidedly, — I  think  I 
must  say  that,  George, — it’s  my  duty  to  tell  you  so.” 

“Why  are  you  sorry,  sir?”  said  George  calmly. 

“  Why,  to  see  you,  as  it  were,  setting  yourself  in  opposition 
to  the  laws  of  your  country.” 

“My  country!”  said  George,  with  a  strong  and  bitter 
emphasis;  “  what  country  have  I  but  the  grave, — and  I  wish 
to  God  that  I  was  laid  there!  ” 

“  Why,  George,  no, — no,— it  won’t  do;  this  way  of  talking 
is  wicked,— unscriptura.1.  George,  you’ve  got  a  hard  master, 
— in  fact,  he  is — well,  he  conducts  himself  reprehendbly, — I 
ean’t  pretend  to  defend  him.  But  you  know  how  the  angel 
commanded  Hagar  to  return  to  her  mistress,  and  submit 
herself  under  her  hand;  and  the  apostle  sent  back  Onesimus 
to  his  master.” 

“  Don’t  quote  Bible  at  me  that  way,  Sir.  Wilson,”  said 
George,  with  a  flashing  eye,  “  don’t!  for  my  wife  is  a  Chris¬ 
tian,  and  I  mean  to  be,  if  ever  I  get  to  where  I  can;  but  to 
quote  Bible  to  a  fellow  in  my  circumstances  is  enough  to 
make  him  give  it  up  altogether.  I  appeal  to  God  Almighty, 
—I’m  willing  to  go  with  the  case  to  him,  and  ask  him  if  I  do 
wrong  to  seek  my  freedom.” 

“  These  feelings  are  quite  natural,  George,”  said  the  good- 
natured  man,  blowing  his  nose.  “Yes,  they’re  natural,  but 
it  is  my  duty  not  to  encourage  ’em  in  you.  Yes,  my  boy,  I’m 
sorry  for  you,  now;  it’s  a  bad  case,— very  bad;  but  the 
apostle  says,  ‘  Let  everyone  bide  in  the  condition  in  which  he 
is  called.’  We  must  all  submit  to  the  indications  of  Provi¬ 
dence,  George,- — don’t  you  see?  ” 

George  stood  with  his  head  drawn  back,  his  arms  folded 
tightly  over  his  broad  breast,  and  a  bitter  smile  curling  his 
lips. 

“  I  wonder,  Mr.  Wilson,  if  the  Indians  should  come  and 
take  you  a  prisoner  away  from  your  wife  and  children,  and 
want  to  keep  you  all  your  life  hoeing  corn  for  them,  if  you’d 
think  it  your  duty  to  abide  in  the  condition  in  which  you 
were  called.  I  rather  think  that  you’d  think  the  first  stray 
horse  you  could  find  an  indication  of  Providence, — -shouldn’t 
you?  ” 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY,  111 

The  little  old  gentleman  stared  with  both  eyes  at  this  iilus® 
tration  of  the  case;  but,  though  not  much  of  a  reasoner,  h® 
had  the  sense  in  which  some  logicians  on  this  particular  sub¬ 
ject  do  not  excel, — that  of  saying  nothing  where  nothing 
could  be  said.  So,  as  he  stood  carefully  stroking  his 
umbrella,  and  folding  and  patting  down  all  the  creases  in  it# 
he  proceeded  on  with  his  exhortations  in  a  general  way. 

“You  see,  George,  you  know,  now,  I  always  have  stood 
your  friend;  and  whatever  Fve  said  Pve  said  for  your  good. 
Now,  here,  it  seems  to  me,  you're  running  an  awful  risk. 
You  can't  hope  to  carry  it  out.  If  you're  taken,  it  will  be 
worse  with  you  than  ever;  they'll  only  abuse  you,  and  half 
kill  you,  and  sell  you  down  river." 

“  Mr.  Wilson,  I  know  all  this,"  said  George.  “  I  do  run  a 
risk,  but" — he  threw  open  his  overcoat,  and  showed  two 
pistols  and  a  bowie-knife.  “  There!  "  he  said;  “  I'm  ready 
for  'em!  Down  South  I  never  will  go!  No!  if  it  comes  to 
that,  I  can  earn  myself  at  least  six  feet  of  free  soil, — the  first 
and  last  I  shall  ever  own  in  Kentucky!  " 

“  Why,  George,  this  state  of  mind  is  awful;  it's  getting 
really  desperate,  George.  I'm  concerned.  Going  to  break 
the  laws  of  your  countrv!  " 

“  My  country  again!  Mr.  Wilson,  you  have  a  country;  but 
what  country  have  /,  or  anyone  like  me,  born  of  slave 
mothers?  YvTiat  laws  are  there  for  us?  We  don't  make 
them,  we  don't  consent  to  them,— we  have  nothing  to  do 
with  them;  all  they  do  for  us  is  to  crush  us  and  keep  us  down. 
Haven't  I  heard  your  Icurth~o£-July  speeches?  Don't  you 
tell  us  all,  once  a  year,  that  governments  derive  their  just 
power  from  the  consent  of  the  governed?  Can't  a  fellow 
think,  that  hears  such  things?  Can't  he  put  this  and  that 
together,  and  see  what  it  comes  to  ?  " 

Mr.  Wilson's  mind  was  one  of  those  that  may  not  unaptly 
be  represented  by  a  bale  of  cotton,— downy,  soft,  benevolently 
fuzzy  and  confused.  He  really  pitied  George  with  all  his 
heart,  ana  had  a  sort  of  dim  and  cloudy  perception  of  the 
style  of  feeling  that  agitated  him;  but  he  deemed  it  his  duty 
to  go  on  'alking  good  to  him,  with  infinite  pertinacity. 

“  George,  this  is  bad.  I  must  tell  you,  you  know,  as  a 
friend,  you'd  better  not  be  meddling  with  such  notions;  they 
are  bad,  George,  very  bad,  for  boys  in  vour  condition,— 
very;"  and  Mr.  Wilson  sat  down  to  a  table,  and  began  nerv* 
ously  chewing  the  handle  of  his  umbrella. 


Hi  UNCLE  tom’s  cabin  ;  OB* 

u  Sec  here,  now,  Mr.  Wilson,”  said  George,  coming  up  and 
seating  himself  determinedlv  down  in  front  of  "him;  “  look 
at  me,  now.  Don’t  I  sit  before  yen,  every  way,  just  as  much 
a  man  as  you  are?  Look  at  my  face, — look  at  my  hands, — 
look  at  my  body,”  and  the  young  man  drew  himself  up 
proudly;  “  why  am  I  not  a  man,  as  much  as  anybody?  Well, 
Mr.  Wilson,  hear  what  I  can  tell  you.  I  had  a  father — one 
of  your  Kentucky  gentlemen— who  didn’t  think  enough  of 
me  to  keep  me  from  being  sold  with  his  dogs  and  horses, 
to  satisfy  the  estate,  when  he  died.  I  saw  my  mother  put  up 
at  sheriff’s  sale,  with  her  seven  children.  They  were  sold 
before  her  eyes,  one  by  one,  all  to  different  masters;  and  I 
was  the  youngest.  She  came  and  kneeled  down  before  old 
mas’r,  and  begged  him  to  buy  her  with  me,  that  she  might 
have  at  least  one  child  with  her;  and  he  kicked  her  away 
with  his  heavy  boot.  I  saw  him  do  it;  and  the  last  that  I 
heard  was  her  moans  and  screams,  wh en  I  was  tied  to  his 
horse’s  neck,  to  be  carried  off  to  his  place.” 

“  Well,  then  ?  ” 

“  My  master  traded  with  one  of  the  men,  and  bought  my 
oldest  sister.  She  was  a  pious,  good  girl,— a  member  of  the 
Baptist  Church,— and  as  handsome  as  my  poor  mother  had 
been.  She  was  well  brought  up,  and  had  good  manners.  At 
first  I  was  glad  she  was  bought,  for  I  had  one  friend  near 
me.  I  was  soon  sorry  for  it.  Sir,  I  have  stood  at  the  door 
and  heard  her  whipped,  when  it  seemed  as  if  every  blow  cut 
into  my  naked  heart,  and  I  couldn’t  do  anything  to  help  her; 
and  she  was  whipped,  sir,  for  wanting  to  live  a  decent  Chris¬ 
tian  life,  such  as  your  laws  give  no  slave  girl  a  right  to  live; 
and  at  last  I  saw  her  chained  with  a  trader’s  gang,  to  he  sent 
to  market  in  Orleans,— sent  there  for  nothing  else  hut  that,— 
and  that’s  the  last  I  know  of  her.  Well,  X  grew  up,- — long 
years  and  years,— no  father,  no  mother,  no  sister,  not  a  living 
soul  that  cared  for  me  more  than  a  dog;  nothing  but  whip¬ 
ping,  scolding,  starving.  Why,  sir,  I’ve  been  so  hungry  that 
X  have  been  glad  to  take  the  bones  they  threw  to  their  dogs; 
and  yet,  when  X  was  a  little  fellow,  and  laid  awake  whole 
nights  and  cried,  it  wasn’t  the  hunger,  it  wasn’t  the  whipping 
I  cried  for.  No,  sir;  it  was  for  my  mother  and  my  sisters ,— 
it  was  because  X  hadn’t  a  friend  to  love  me  on  earth.  I  never 
knew  what  peace  or  comfort  was.  X  never  had  a  land  word 
spoken  to  me  till  X  came  to  woik  in  your  factory.  Mr.  Wih 
go n,  you  treated  me  well;  yon  encouraged  me  to  do  well,  and 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY.  11H 

to  learn  to  read  and  write,  and  to  try  to  make  something  of 
myself;  and  God  knows  how  grateful  I  am  for  it.  Then,  sir* 
I  found  my  wife;  you’ve  seen  her, — you  know  how  beautiful 
she  is.  When  1  found  she  loved  me,  when  I  married  her,  I 
scarcely  could  believe  I  was  alive,  I  was  so  happy;  and,  sir, 
she  is  as  good  as  she  is  beautiful.  But  now  what?  Why, 
now  comes  my  master,  takes  me  right  away  from  my  work 
and  my  friends,  and  all  1  like,  and  grinds  me  down  into  the 
very  dirt!  And  why?  Because,  he  says,  I  forgot  who  I  was; 
he  says,  to  teach  me  that  I  am  only  a  nigger!  After  all,  and 
last  of  all,  he  comes  between  me  and  my  wife,  and  says  I  shall 
give  her  up  and  live  with  another  woman.  And  all  this  your 
laws  give  him  power  to  do,  in  spite  of  God  or  man.  Mr.  Wil¬ 
son,  look  at  it!  There  isn’t  one  of  all  these  things  that  have 
broken  the  hearts  of  my  mother  and  my  sister,  and  my  wife 
and  myself,  but  your  laws  allow,  and  give  every  man  power 
to  do,  in  Kentucky,  and  none  can  say  to  him  nay!  Do  you 
call  these  the  laws  of  my  country?  Sir,  I  haven’t  any  coun¬ 
try,  any  more  than  I  have  any  father.  But  I’m  going  to 
have  one.  I  don’t  want  anything  of  your  country,  except  to 
be  let  alone,— to  go  peaceably  out  of  it;  and  when  I  get  to 
Canada,  where  the  laws  will  own  me  and  protect  me,  that 
shall  be  my  country,  and  its  laws  I  will  obey.  But  if  any 
man  tries  to  stop  me,  let  him  take  care,  for  I  am  desperate. 
I’ll  fight  for  my  liberty  to  the  last  breath  I  breathe.  You  say 
your  fathers  did  it;  if  it  was  right  for  them,  it  is  right  for 
me!  ” 

This  speech,  delivered  partly  while  sitting  at  the  table,  and 
partly  walking  up  and  down  the  room,— delivered  with  tears 
and  flashing  eyes,  and  despairing  gestures,— was  altogether 
too  much  for  the  good-natured  old  body  to  whom  it  was 
addressed,  who  had  pulled  out  a  great  yellow  silk  pocket 
handkerchief,  and  was  mopping  up  his  face  with  great 
energy. 

“  Blast  ’em  all!”  he  suddenly  broke  out.  “  Haven’t  I 
always  said  so,— the  infernal  old  cusses!  I  hope  I  an’t  swear¬ 
ing,  now.  Well!  go  ahead,  George,  go  ahead;  but  be  care¬ 
ful,  my  boy;  don’t  shoot  anybody,  George,  unless — well— 
you’d  better  not  shoot,  I  reckon;  at  least,  I  wouldn’t  hit  any¬ 
body,  you  know.  Where  is  your  wife,  George?  ”  he  added, 
as  he  nervously  rose  and  began  walking  the  room. 

“  Gone,  sir,  gone,  with  her  child  in  her  arms,  the  Lord 
only  knows  where;— gone  after  the  north  star;  and  when 


114  UNCLE  TOM*S  CABIN;  OB, 

ever  meet,  or  whether  we  meet  at  all  in  this  world,  no  crea* 
lure  can  tell.” 

•  “  Is  it  possible!  astonishing!  from  such  a  kind  family!  ” 

“  Kind  families  get  in  debt,  and  the  laws  of  our  country 
allow  them  to  sell  the  child  out  of  its  mother’s  bosom  to  pay 
Its  master’s  debts,”  said  George  bitterly. 

“  Well,  well,”  said  the  honest  old  man,  fumbling  in  his 
pocket.  “  I  s’pose,  perhaps,  I  an’t  following  my  judgment, — 
hang  it,  I  won't  follow  my  judgment!  ”  he  added  suddenly; 
“  so  here,  George,”  and  taking  out  a  roll  of  bills  from  his 
pocketbook,  he  offered  them  to  George. 

“  Ho,  my  kind,  good  sir!  ”  said  George,  “  you’ve  done  a 
great  deal  for  me,  and  this  might  get  you  into  trouble.  I 
have  money  enough,  I  hope,  to  take  me  as  far  as  I  need  it.” 

“  No;  but  you  must,  George.  Money  is  a  great  help  every¬ 
where;— can’t  have  too  much,  if  you  get  it  honestly.  Take 
it, — do  take  it,  now, — do,  my  boy!  ” 

“  On  condition,  sir,  that  I  may  repay  it  at  some  future 
time,  I  will,”  said  George,  taking  up  the  money. 

“  And  now,  George,  how  long  are  you  going  to  travel  in 
this  way?— not  long  or  far,  I  hope.  It’s  well  carried  on,  but 
too  bold.  And  this  black  fellow, — -who  is  he?  ” 

“  A  true  fellow,  who  went  to  Canada  more  than  a  year  ago. 
He  heard,  after  he  got  there,  that  his  master  was  so  angry  at 
him  for  going  off  that  he  had  whipped  his  poor  old  mother; 
and  he  has  come  all  the  way  back  to  comfort  her,  and  get  a 
chance  to  get  her  away.” 

“  Has  he  got  her?  ” 

“  Hot  yet;  he  has  been  hanging  about  the  place,  and  found 
no  chance  yet.  Meanwhile,  he  is  going  with  me  as  far  as 
Ohio,  to  put  me  among  friends  that  helped  him,  and  then  he 
will  come  back  after  her.” 

“  Dangerous,  very  dangerous!  ”  said  the  old  man. 

George  drew  himself  up,  and  smiled  disdainfully. 

The  old  gentleman  eyed  him  from  head  to  foot  with  a  sort 
of  innocent  wonder. 

“  George,  something  has  brought  you  out  wonderfully. 
You  hold  up  your  head,  and  speak  and  move  like  another 
man,”  said  Mr.  Wilson. 

“  Because  I’m  a  free-  man!"  said  George  proudly.  “Yes, 
sir:  I’ve  said  mas’r  for  the  last  time  to  any  man.  Pm 
free /  ” 

“  Take  card,  You  are  not  sure.— you  may  he  take]?  ” 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY. 


1U 

All  men  are  free  and  equal  in  the  grave ,  if  it  comes  to 
that,  Mr  Wilson,”  said  George. 

“  I’m  perfectly  dumfoundered  with,  your  boldness!  ”  said 
Mr.  Wilson,— “  to  come  right  here  to  the  nearest  tavern!  ” 

“  Mr.  Wilson,  it  is  so  bold,  and  this  tavern  is  so  near,  that 
they  will  never  think  of  it;  they  will  look  for  me  on  ahead, 
and  you  yourself  wouldn’t  know  me.  Jim’s  master  don’t 
live  in  this  county;  he  isn’t  known  in  these  parts.  Besides, 
he  is  given  up;  nobody  is  looking  after  him,  and  nobody  will 
take  me  up  from  the  advertisement,  I  think.” 

“  But  the  mark  on  your  hand?  ” 

George  drew  off  his  glove,  and  showed  a  newly  healed  scar 
in  his  hand. 

“  That  is  a  parting  proof  of  Mr.  Harris’  regard,”  he  said 
scornfully.  “  A  fortnight  ago  he  took  it  into  his  head  to 
give  it  to  me,  because  he  said  he  believed  I  should  try  to  get 
away  one  of  these  days.  Looks  interesting,  doesn’t  it?”  he 
said,  drawing  his  glove  on  again. 

“  I  declare,  my  very  blood  runs  cold  when  I  think  of  it, — 
your  condition  and  your  risks!  ”  said  Mr.  Wilson. 

“  Mine  has  run  cold  a  good  many  years,  Mr.  Wilson;  at 
present,  it’s  about  up  to  the  boiling  point,”  said  George. 

“Well,  my  good  sir,”  continued  George,  after  a  few  mo¬ 
ments’  silence.  “  I  saw  you  knew  me;  I  thought  I’d  just 
have  this  talk  with  you,  lest  your  surprised  looks  should  bring 
me  out.  I  leave  early  to-morrow  morning,  before  daylight; 
by  to-morrow  night  I  hope  to  sleep  safe  in  Ohio.  I  shall 
travel  by  daylight,  stop  at  the  best  hotels,  go  to  the  dinner 
tables  with  the  lords  of  the  land.  So,  good-by,  sir;  if  you 
hear  that  I’m  taken,  you  may  know  that  I’m  dead!  ” 

George  stood  up  like  a  rock,  and  put  out  his  hand  with  the 
air  of  a  prince.  The  friendly  little  old  man  shook  it  heartily, 
and  after  a  little  shower  of  cautions,  he  took  his  umbrella, 
and  fumbled  his  way  out  of  the  room. 

George  stood  thoughtfully,  looking  at  the  door,  as  the  old 
man  closed  it.  A  thought  seemed  to  flash  across  his  mind. 
He  hastily  stepped  to  it,  and,  opening  it,  said: 

“  Mr.  Wilson,  one  word  more.” 

The  old  gentleman  entered  again,  and  George,  as  before, 
locked  the  door,  and  then  stood  for  a  few  moments  looking  on 
tile  floor  irresolutely.  At  last,  raising  his  head  with  a  sud¬ 
den  effort: 

Mr.  Wilson,  you  have  shown  yourself  a  Christian  in  you* 


116  uncle  tom’s  cabin;  ob, 

treatment  of  me, — I  want  to  ask  one  last  deeu  of  Christian 
kindness  of  you.” 

“  Well,  George?” 

"Well,  sir, — what  you  said  was  true.  I  am  running  a 
dreadful  risk.  There  isn’t,  on  earth,  a  living  soul  to  care  if  I 
die,”  he  added,  drawing  his  breath  hard,  and  speaking  with 
a  great  effort, — “  I  shall  be  kicked  out  and  buried  like  a  dog, 
and  nobody  ’ll  think  of  it  a  day  after,- — only  my  poor  wife / 
Poor  soul!  she’ll  mourn  and  grieve;  and  if  you’d  only  con¬ 
trive,  Mr.  Wilson,  to  send  this  little  pin  to  her.  She  gave  it 
to  me  for  a  Christmas  present,  poor  child!  Give  it  to  her, 
and  tell  her  I  loved  her  to  the  last.  Will  you?  Will  you?  ” 
he  added  earnestly. 

“  Yes,  certainly,— poor  fellow!  ”  said  the  old  gentleman, 
taking  the  pin,  with  watery  eyes,  and  a  melancholy  quiver  in 
his  voice. 

“  Tell  her  one  thing,”  said  George;  “  it’s  my  last  wish,  if 
she  can  get  to  Canada,  to  go  there.  No  matter  how  kind  her 
mistress  is,— no  matter  how  much  she  loves  her  home,  beg 
her  not  to  go  back, — for  slavery  always  ends  in  misery.  Tell 
her  to  bring  up  our  boy  a  free  man,  and  then  he  won’t  suffer 
as  I  have.  Tell  her  this,  Mr.  Wilson,  will  you?” 

“  Yes,  George,  I’ll  tell  her;  but  I  trust  you  won’t  die;  take 
heart, — you’re  a  brave  fellow.  Trust  in  the  Lord,  George. 
I  wish  in  my  heart  you  were  safe  through,  though,  that’s 
what  I  do.” 

“  Is  there  a  God  to  trust  in?  ”  said  George,  in  such  a  tone 
of  bitter  despair  as  arrested  the  old  gentleman’s  words. 
"  Oh,  I’ve  seen  things  all  my  life  that  have  made  me  feel  that 
there  can’t  be  a  God.  You  Christians  don’t  know  how  these 
tilings  look  to  us.  There’s  a  God  for  you,  but  is  there  any 
for  ns?” 

“  Oh,  now,  don’t,— don’t,  my  boy!  ”  said  the  old  man, 
almost  sobbing  as  he  spoke;  “  don’t  feel  so!  There  is,— 
there  is;  clouds  and  darkness  are  around  about  him,  but 
righteousness  and  judgment  are  the  habitation  of  his  throne. 
There’s  a  God,  George,— believe  it;  trust  in  him,  and  I’m  sure 
he’ll  help  you.  Everything  ‘will  be  set  right,— if  not  in  this 
life,  in  another.” 

The  real  piety  and  benevolence  of  the  simple  old  man  in¬ 
vested  him  with  a  temporary  dignity  and  authority  as  he 
spoke.  George  stopped  his  distracted  walk  un  and  down  the 
room,  stood  thoughtfully  a  moment,  and  then  said  quietly;  ^ 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY.  117 

“  Thank  you  for  saying  that,  my  good  friend;  Fll  think 
of  that” 

CHAPTER  XII. 

SELECT  INCIDENT  OF  LAWFUL  TRADE 

“  In  Hamah  was  there  a  voice  heard,— lamentation,  and  weeping,  and 
great  mourning ;  Rachel  weeping  for  her  children,  and  would  not  be 
comforted,” 

Mr.  Haley  and  Tom  jogged  onward  in  their  wagon,  each, 
for  a  time,  absorbed  in  his  own  reflections.  Now  the  reflec¬ 
tions  of  two  men  sitting  side  by  side  are  a  curious  thing,— 
seated  on  the  same  seat,  having  the  same  eyes,  ears,  hands, 
and  organs  of  all  sorts,  and  having  pass  before  their  eyes  the 
same  objects, — it  is  wonderful  what  a  variety  we  shall  find 
in  these  same  reflections! 

As,  for  example,  Mr.  Haley:  he  thought  first  of  Tom’s 
length,  and  breadth,  and  height,  and  what  he  would  sell  for, 
if  he  was  kept  fat  and  in  good  case  till  he  got  him  into 
market.  He  thought  of  how  he  should  make  out  his  gang; 
he  thought  of  the  respective  market  value  of  certain  supposi¬ 
titious  men  and  women  and  children  who  were  to  compose 
it,  and  other  kindred  topics  of  the  business;  then  he  thought 
of  himself,  and  how  humane  he  was,  that  whereas  other  men 
chained  their  “ niggers”  hand  and  foot  both,  he  only  put 
fetters  on  the  feet,  and  left  Tom  the  use  of  his  hands,  as  long 
as  he  behaved  well;  and  he  sighed  to  think  how  ungrateful 
human  nature  was,  so  that  there  was  <wen  room  to  doubt 
whether  Tom  appreciated  his  mercies.  He  had  been  taken 
in  so  by  “  niggers  ”  whom  he  had  favored;  but  still  he  was 
astonished  to  consider  how  good-natured  he  yet  remained! 

As  to  Tom,  he  wras  thinking  over  some  words  of  an  un¬ 
fashionable  old  book,  which  kept  running  through  his  head 
again  and  again,  as  follows:  aWe  have  here  no  continuing 
city,  but  v/e  seek  one  to  come;  wherefore  God  himself  is  not 
ashamed  to  be  called  our  God;  for  he  hath  prepared  for  us  a 
city.”  These  words  ox  an  ancient  volume,  got  up  principally 
by  “  ignorant  and  unlearned  men,”  have,  through  all  time, 
kept  up,  somehow,  a  strange  sort  of  power  over  the  minds 
of  poor,  simple  fellows  like  Tom, 

They  stir  up  the  soul  from  its  depths,  and  rouse,  as  with 


118 


UNCLE  TOM*S  CABIN;  OB, 

trumpet  call,  courage,  energy,  and  enthusiasm,  where  before 
was  only  the  blackness  of  despair. 

Mr.  Haley  pulled  out  of  his  pocket  sundry  newspapers,  and 
began  looking  over  their  advertisements,  with  absorbed 
interest.  He  was  not  a  remarkably  fluent  reader,  and  was  in 
the  habit  of  reading  in  a  sort  of  recitative  half-aloud,  by  way 
of  calling  in  his  ears  to  verify  the  deductions  of  his  eyes.  In 
this  tone  he  slowly  recited  the  following  paragraph: 

44  Executors*  Sale. —Negroes  ’—Agreeably  to  order  of  court,  will 
be  sold,  on  Tuesday,  February  20.  before  the  Courthouse  door,  in  the 
town  of  Washington,  Kentucky,  the  following  negroes  :  Hagai*.  aged 
60  :  John,  aged  30  ;  Ben,  aged  21  ;  Saul,  aged  25  ;  Albert,  aged  14. 
Sold  for  the  benefit  of  the  creditors  and  heirs  of  the  estate  of  Jesse 
Biutchford,  Esq, 

44  Samuel  Morris,  \  Fjrfrvfor,  » 

44  Thomas  Flint,  f  ^ecutois. 

“  This  yer  I  must  look  at,”  said  he  to  Tom,  for  want  of 
somebody  else  to  talk  to.  “Ye  see,  Fm  going  to  get  up  a 
prime  gang  to  take  down  with  ye,  Tom;  it  ’ll  make  it  sociable 
and  pleasant  like,— good  company  will,  ye  know.  We  must 
drive  right  to  Washington  first  and  foremost,  and  then  Fll 
clap  you  into  jail,  while  I  does  the  business.” 

Tom  received  this  agreeable  intelligence  quite  meekly; 
simply  wondering,  in  his  own  heart,  how  many  of  these 
doomed  men  had  wives  and  children,  and  whether  they  would 
feel  as  he  did  about  leaving  them.  It  is  to  be  confessed,  too, 
that  the  naive,  offhand  information  that  he  was  to  he  thrown 
into  jail  by  no  means  produced  an  agreeable  impression  on 
a  poor  fellow  who  had  always  prided  himself  on  a  strictly 
honest  and  upright  course  of  life.  Yes,  Tom,  we  must  con¬ 
fess  it,  was  rather  proud  of  his  honesty,  poor  fellow, — -not 
having  very  much  else  to  be  proud  of;— if  he  had  belonged 
to  some  of  the  higher  walks  of  society,  he,  perhaps,  would 
never  have  been  reduced  to  such  straits.  However,  the  clay 
wore  on,  and  the  evening  saw  Haley  and  Tom  comfortably 
accommodated  in  Washington,— the  one  in  a  tavern,  and  the 
other  in  a  jail. 

About  eleven  o?clock  the  next  day  a  mixed  throng  was 
gathered  around  the  courthouse  steps,— smoking,  chewing, 
spitting,  swearing,  and  conversing,  according  to  their  re¬ 
spective  tastes  and  turns. — waiting  for  the  auction  to  com¬ 
mence.  The  men  and  women  to  be  sold  sat  in  a  group  apart* 
talking  in  a  low  tone  to  each  other.  The  woman  who  had 


XiIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY* 


Ilf 


been  advertised  by  the  name  of  Hagar  was  a  regular  African 
in  feature  and  figure.  She  might  have  been  sixty,  but  was 
older  than  that  by  hard  work  and  disease,  was  partially  blind, 
and  somewhat  crippled  with  rheumatism.  By  her  side  stood 
her  only  remaining  son,  Albert,  a  bright-looking  little  fellow 
of  fourteen  years.  The  boy  was  the  only  survivor  of  a  large 
family,  who  had  been  successively  sold  away  from  her  to  a 
Southern  market.  The  mother  held  on  to  him  with  both 
her  shaking  hands,  and  eyed  with  intense  trepidation  every¬ 
one  who  walked  up  to  examine  him. 

“  Don't  be  'feard,  Aunt  Hagar,"  said  the  oldest  of  the  men. 
“  I  spoke  to  Mas'r  Thomas  'bout  it,  and  he  thought  he  might 
manage  to  sell  you  in  a  lot  both  together." 

“  Dev  needn't  call  me  worn-out  yet,"  said  she.  lifting  her 
shaking  hands.  “  I  can  cook  yet,  and  scrub,  and  scour,— 
I'm  wuth  a-buying,  if  I  do  come  cheap; — tell  'em  dat  ar,— 
you  tell  'em,"  she  added  earnestly. 

Haley  here  forced  his  way  into  the  group,  walked  up  to  the 
oldest  man,  pulled  his  mouth  open  and  looked  in,  felt  of  his 
teeth,  made  him  stand  and  straighten  himself,  bend  his  back 
and  perform  various  evolutions  to  show  his  muscles;  and 
then  passed  on  to  the  next  and  put  him  through  the  same 
trial.'  Walking  up  last  to  the  boy,  he  felt  of  his  arms, 
straightened  his  hands,  and  looked  at  his  fingers,  and  made 
him  jump,  to  show  his  agility. 

“  He  an't  gwine  to  he  sold  widout  me! "  said  the  old 
woman,  with  passionate  eagerness;  “  he  and  I  goes  in  a  lot 
together.  I's  rail  strong  yet,  mas'r,  and  can  do  heaps  o' 
work,— heaps  on  it,  mas'r." 

“  On  plantation?  "  said  Haley,  with  a  contemptuous  glance. 
“Likely  story!  "  and,  as  if  satisfied  with  his  examination,  h© 
walked  out  and  looked,  and  stood  with  his  hands  in  his 
pockets,  his  cigar  in  his  mouth,  and  his  hat  cocked  on  one 
6ide,  ready  for  action. 

“What  think  of  'em?"  said  a  man  who  had  been  follow¬ 
ing  Haley's  examination,  as  if  to  make  up  his  own  mind 
from  it. 

“  Wal,"  said  Haley,  spitting,  “I  shall  put  in,  I  think,  for 
the  younger  ones  and  the  boy/' 

“  They  want  to  sell  the  boy  and  the  old  woman  together," 
said  the  man. 

“hind  it  a  tight  null;— why,  she's  an  old  rack  o'  bones-*** 
not  worth  her  salt " 


120 


okclb  'tom’s  cabin  ;  ob# 

“  You  wouldn’t,  then?  ”  said  the  man. 

“  Anybody ’d  be  a  fool  ’twould.  She’s  half  blind,  crooked 
with  rheumatis,  and  foolish  to  boot.” 

“  Some  buys  up  these  yer  old  critturs,  and  ses  there’s  a 
eight  more  wear  in  ’em  than  a  body ’d  think,”  said  the  man 
reflectively. 

“No  go  ’tall,”  said  Haley;  “  wouldn’t  take  her  for  a 
present,— fact,— I’ve  seen ,  now.” 

“  Wal,  ’tis  kinder  pity,  now,  not  to  buy  her  with  her  son, — - 
her  heart  seems  so  sot  on  him, — s’pose  they  fling  her  in 
cheap?  ” 

“  Them  that’s  got  money  to  spend  that  ar  way,  it’s  all  well 
enough.  I  shall  bid  off  on  that  ar  boy  for  a  plantation-hand; 
wouldn’t  be  bothered  with  her  noway,— not  if  they’d  give 
her  to  me,”  said  Haley. 

“  She’ll  take  on  desp’t  ”  said  the  man. 

“  Nat’lly,  she  will,”  said  the  trader  coolly. 

The  conversation  was  here  interrupted  by  a  busy  hum  in 
the  audience;  and  the  auctioneer,  a  short,  bustling,  impor¬ 
tant  fellow,  elbowed  his  way  into  the  crowd.  The  old  woman 
drew  in  her  breath  and  caught  instinctively  at  her  son. 

“  Keep  close  to  yer  mammy,  Albert, — close,— dey’ll  put  us 
up  togedder,”  she  said. 

“  Oh,  mammy,  I’m  ’feared  they  won’t,”  said  the  boy. 

“  Dey  must,  child;  I  can’t  live,  noways,  if  they  don’t!  ” 
said  the  old  creature  vehemently. 

The  stentorian  tones  of  the  auctioneer,  calling  out  to  clear 
the  way,  now  announced  that  the  sale  was  about  to  com¬ 
mence.  A  place  was  cleared,  and  the  bidding  began.  The 
different  men  on  the  list  were  soon  knocked  off  at  prices 
which  showed  a  pretty  brisk  demand  in  the  market;  two  of 
them  fell  to  Haley. 

“  Come  now,  young  un,”  said  the  auctioneer,  giving  the 
boy  a  touch  with  his  hammer,  “  be  up  and  show  your  springs, 
now.” 

“  Put  us  two  up  togedder,  togedder,— do  please,  mas’r,” 
said  the  old  woman,  holding  fast  to  her  boy. 

“  Be  off!  ”  said  the  man  gruffly,  pushing  her  hands  away; 
“  you  come  last.  Now,  darky,  spring;”  and,  with  the  word, 
he  pushed  the  hoy  toward  the  block,  while  a  deep,  heavy 
groan  rose  behind  him.  The  hoy  paused,  and  looked  hack; 
bat  there  was  no  time  to  stay,  and,  dashing  the  tears  from 
Ms  large  bright  eyes,  lie  was  up  in  a  moment. 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY. 


121 


His  line  figure,  alert  limbs,  and  bright  face  raised  an  in¬ 
stant  competition,  and  half  a  dozen  bids  simultaneously  met 
the  ear  of  the  auctioneer.  Anxious,  half-frightened,  he 
looked  from  side  to  side,  as  he  heard  the  clatter  of  contend¬ 
ing  bids, — now  here,  now  there, — till  the  hammer  fell. 
Haley  had  got  him.  He  was  pushed  from  the  block  toward 
his  new  master,  but  stopped  one  moment,  and  looked  back, 
when  his  poor  old  mother,  trembling  in  every  limb,  held  out 
her  shaking  hands  toward  him. 

“  Buy  me  too,  mas’r,  for  de  dear  Lord’s  sake!— buy  me,— I 
shall  die  if  you  don’t!  ” 

“  You’ll  die  if  I  do,  that’s  the  kink  of  it,”  said  Haley,— 
“no!  ”  And  he  turned  on  his  heel. 

The  bidding  for  the  poor  old  creature  was  summary.  The 
man  who  had  addressed  Haley,  and  who  seemed  not  desti¬ 
tute  of  compassion,  bought  her  for  a  trifle,  and  the  specta¬ 
tors  began  to  disperse. 

The  poor  victims  of  the  sale,  who  had  been  brought  up  in 
one  place  together  for  years,  gathered  round  the  despairing 
old  mother,  whose  agony  was  pitiful  to  see. 

“Couldn’t  dey  leave  me  one?  Mas’r  allers  said  I  should 
have  one, — he  did,”  she  repeated  over  and  over  in  heart¬ 
broken  tones. 

“  Trust  in  the  Lord,  Aunt  Hagar,”  said  the  oldest  of  the 
men  sorrowfully. 

“What  good  will  it  do?”  said  she,  sobbing  passionately. 

“  Mother,  mother, — don’t!  don’t!  ”  said  the  bov.  “  They 
say  you’s  got  a  good  master.” 

“I  don’t  care— I  don’t  care.  Oh,  Albert!  Oh,  my  boy, 
you’s  my  last  baby.  Lord,  how  ken  I?  ” 

“  Come,  take  her  off,  can’t  some  of  ye?  ”  said  Haley  dryly; 
“  don’t  do  no  good  for  her  to  go  on  that  ar  way.” 

The  men  of  the  company,  partly  by  persuasion  and  partly 
by  force,  loosed  the  poor  creature’s  last  despairing  hold,  and, 
as  they  led  her  off  to  her  new  master’s  wagon,  strove  to  com¬ 
fort  her. 

“  Now!  ”  said  Haley,  pushing  his  three  purchases  together, 
and  producing  a  bundle  of  handcuffs  which  he  proceeded  to 
put  on  their  wrists;  and  fastening  each  handcuff  to  a  long 
chain,  he  drove  them  before  him  to  the  jail. 

A  few  da^s  saw  Haley,  with  his  possessions  safely  deposited 
on  one  of  the  Ohio  boats.  It  was  the  commencement  of  his 
gang  to  be  augmented,  as  the  boat  moved  on,  by  various  othef 


122 


uncle  tom’s  cabin;  ob? 

merchandise  of  the  same  kind,  which  he,  or  his  agent,  hact 
stored  for  him  in  various  points  along  shore. 

The  La  Belle  Riviere ,  as  brave  and  beautiful  a  boat  as  ever 
walked  the  waters  of  her  namesake  river,  was  floating  gayly 
down  the  stream,  under  a  brilliant  sky,  the  Stripes  and  Stars 
of  free  America  waving  and  fluttering  overhead;  the  guards 
crowded  with  well-dressed  ladies  and  gentlemen  walking  and 
enjoying  the  delightful  day.  All  was  full  of  life,  buoyant 
and  rejoicing; — -all  but  Haley’s  gang,  who  were  stored,  with 
other  freight,  on  the  lower  deck,  and  who,  somehow,  did  not 
seem  to  appreciate  their  various  privileges,  as  they  sat  in  a 
knot,  talking  to  each  other  in  low  tones. 

“  Boys,”  said  Haley,  coming  up  briskly,  “  I  hope  you  keep 
up  good  heart,  and  are  cheerful.  How,  no  sulks,  ye  see; 
keep  stiff  upper  lip,  boys,  do  well  by  me,  and  I’ll  do  well 
by  you.” 

The  boys  addressed  responded  the  invariable  “  Yes,  mas’r,” 
for  ages  the  watchword  of  poor  Africa;  but  it’s  to  be  owned 
they  did  not  look  particularly  cheerful;  they  had  their  vari¬ 
ous  little  prejudices  in  favor  of  wives,  mothers,  sisters,  and 
children,  seen  for  the  last  time, — and  though  “  they  that 
wasted  them  required  of  them  mirth,”  it  was  not  instantly 
forthcoming. 

“  I’ve  got  a  wife,”  spoke  out  the  article  enumerated  as 
“  J ohn,  aged  thirty,”  and  he  laid  his  chained  hand  on  Tom’s 
knee.— “and  she  don’t  know  a  word  about  this,  poor  girl!” 

“ Where  does  she  live?”  said  Tom. 

“  In  a  tavern  a  piece  down  here,”  said  John;  “  I  wish,  now* 
I  could  see  her  once  more  in  this  world,”  he  added. 

Poor  John!  It  was  rather  natural;  and  the  tears  that  fell, 
as  he  spoke,  came  as  naturally  as  if  he  had  been  a  white  mam 
Tom  drew  a  long  breath  from  a  sore  heart,  and  tried,  in  his 
poor  way,  to  comfort  him. 

And  overhead  in  the  cabin  sat  fathers  and  mothers,  hus¬ 
bands  and  wives;  and  merry,  dancing  children  moved  round 
among  them,  like  so  many  little  butterflies,  and  everything 
was  going  on  quite  easy  and  comfortable. 

“  Oh,  mamma,”  said  a  boy,  who  had  just  come  up  from 
below,  “  there’s  a  negro-trader  on  board,  and  he’s  brought 
four  or  five  slaves  down  there.” 

“  Poor  creatures!  ”  said  the  mother,  in  a  tone  between 
giief  and  indignation. 

“  Whai/s  that?  ”  said  another  lady. 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY. 


12$ 


*  Some  poor  slaves  below,”  said  the  mother 

“  And  they’ve  got  chains  on/’  said  the  hoy. 

“  What  a  shame  to  our  country  that  such  sights  are  to  bo 
seen!  ”  said  another  lady. 

“  Oh,  there’s  a  great  deal  to  be  said  on  both  sides  of  the 
subject,”  said  a  genteel  woman,  who  sat  at  her  stateroom 
door  sewing,  while  her  little  boy  and  girl  were  playing  round 
her.  “  I’ve  been  South,  and  I  must  say  I  think  the  negroes 
are  better  off  than  they  would  be  to  be  free.” 

“  In  some  respects,  some  of  them  are  well  off,  I  grant,” 
said  the  lady  to  whose  remark  she  had  answered.  “  The  most 
dreadful  part  of  slavery,  to  my  mind,  is  its  outrages  on  the 
feelings  and  affections,— the  separating  of  families,  for 
example.” 

“  That  is  a  bad  thing,  certainly,”  said  the  other  lady,  hold¬ 
ing  up  a  baby’s  dress  she  had  just  completed,  and  looking 
intently  on  its  trimmings;  “  but  then,  I  fancy,  it  don’t  occur 
often.” 

“  Oh,  it  does!  ”  said  the  first  lady  eagerly.  “  I’ve  lived 
many  years  in  Kentucky  and  Virginia  both,  and  I’ve  seen 
enough  to  make  anyone’s  heart  sick.  Suppose,  ma’am  your 
two  children,  there,  should  be  taken  from  you  and  sold?” 

“  We  can’t  reason  from  our  feelings  to  those  of  this  class  of 
persons,”  said  the  other  lady,  sorting  out  some  worsteds  on 
her  lap. 

“  Indeed,  ma’am,  you  can  know  nothing  of  them,  if  you 
say  so,”  answered  the  first  lady  warmly.  “  I  was  born  and 
brought  up  among  diem.  I  know  they  do  feel,  just  as  keenly 
—even  more  so,  perhaps — as  we  do.” 

The  lady  said  “  Indeed!”  yawned,  and  looked  out  the 
cabin  window,  and  finally  repeated,  for  a  finale,  the  remark 
with  which  she  had  begun, — After  all,  I  think  they  are 
better  off  than  thev  would  be  to  be  free.” 

“  It’s  undoubtedly  the  intention  of  Providence  that  the 
African  race  should  be  servants,— kept  in  a  low  condition,” 
said  a  grave-looking  gentleman  in  black,  a  clergyman,  seated 
by  the  cabin  door.  “  ‘  Cursed  be  Canaan;  a  servant  of  serv¬ 
ants  shall  he  be/  the  Scripture  says.” 

“  I  say,  siranger,  is  that  ar  what  that  text  means?”  said  a 
tall  man.  standing  by. 

“  Undoubtedly,  it  pleased  Providence,  for  some  inscruta¬ 
ble  reason,  to  doom  the  race  to  bondage,  ages  ago;  and  we 
ttmsi  '  -et  up  our  opinion  against  that/’ 


1§4  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN;  OE, 

“  Well,  then  we’ll  all  go  ahead  and  buy  up  niggers,”  said 
the  man,  “if  that’s  the  way  of  Providence, — won’t  we, 
squire? ’’said  he,  turning  to  Haley,  who  had  been  standing, 
with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  by  the  stove,  and  intently 
listening  to  the  conversation. 

“Yes,”  continued  the  tall  man,  “we  must  all  be  resigned 
to  the  decrees  of  Providence.  Niggers  must  be  sold,  and 
trucked  round,  and  kept  under;  it’s  what  they’s  made  for. 
’Pears  like  this  yer  view’s  quite  refreshing,  an’t  it,  stranger?  ” 
said  he  to  Haley. 

“  I  never  thought  on’t,”  said  Haley.  “  I  couldn’t  have 
said  as  much,  myself;  I  han’t  no  laming.  I  took  up  the 
trade  just  to  make  a  living;  if  ’ta n’t  right,  I  calculated  to 
’pent  on’t  in  time,  ye  know.” 

“And  now  you’ll  save  yourself  the  trouble,  won’t  ye?” 
said  the  tall  man.  “See  what  ’tis,  now,  to  know  Scripture. 
If  ve’d  only  studied  yer  Bible,  like  this  yer  good  man,  ye 
might  have  know’d  it  before,  and  saved  ye  a  heap  o’  trouble. 
Ye  could  jist  have  said,  ‘  Cussed  be’— what’s  his  name?— 
and  ’twould  all  have  come  right.”  And  the  stranger,  who 
was  no  other  than  the  honest  drover  whom  we  introduced  to 
our  readers  in  the  Kentucky  tavern,  sat  down,  and  began 
smoking,  with  a  curious  smile  on  his  long,  dry  face. 

A  tall,  slender  young  man,  with  a  face  expressive  of  great 
feeling  and  intelligence,  here  broke  in,  and  repeated  the 
words,  “  *  All  things  whatsoever  ye  would  that  men  should 
do  unto  you,  do  ye  even  so  unto  them.’  I  suppose,”  he 
added,  “  that  is  Scripture,  as  much  as  6  Cursed  be  Canaan.’  ” 

“Wal,  it  seems  quite  as  plain  a  text,  stranger,”  said  John 
the  drover,  “  to  poor  fellows  like  us,  now;  ”  and  John  smoked 
on  like  a  volcano. 

The  young  man  paused,  looked  as  if  he  was  going  to  say 
more,  when  suddenly  the  boat  stopped,  and  the  company 
made  the  usual  steamboat  rush  to  see  where  they  were 
landing. 

“Both  them  ar  chaps  parsons?”  said  John  to  one  of  the 
men,  as  they  were  going  out. 

The  man  nodded. 

As  the  boat  stopped,  a  black  woman  came  running  wildly 
up  the  plank,  darted  into  the  crowd,  flew  up  to  where  the 
slave  gang  sat,  and  threw  her  arms  round  that  unfortunate 
piece  of  merchandise  before  enumerated,— “John,  aged 


LIFE  AMOK G  THE  LOWLY. 


1M 


thirty,”  and  with  sobs  and  tears  bemoaned  him  as  her 
husband. 

But  what  needs  tell  the  story,  told  too  oft,— every  day  told, 
— of  heart-strings  rent  and  broken,— the  weak  broken  and 
torn  for  the  profit  and  convenience  of  the  strong!  It  needs 
not  to  be  told;  — every  day  is  telling  it, — telling  it,  too,  in 
the  ear  of  One  who  is  not  deaf,  though  he  be  long  silent. 

The  young  man  who  had  spoken  for  the  cause  of  humanity 
and  God  before  stood  with  folded  arms,  looking  on  this  scene. 
He  turned,  and  Haley  was  standing  at  his  side. 

“  My  friend,”  he  said,  speaking  with  thick  utterance,  u  how 
can  you,  how  dare  you,  carry  on  a  trade  like  this?  Look  at 
those  poor  creatures!  Here  I  am,  rejoicing  in  my  heart  that 
I  am  going  home  to  my  wife  and  child;  and  the  same  bell 
which  is  a  signal  to  carry  me  onward  toward  them  will  part 
this  poor  man  and  his  wife  forever.  Depend  upon  it,  God 
will  bring  you  into  judgment  for  this.” 

The  trader  turned  away  in  silence. 

“  I  say  now,”  said  the  drover,  touching  his  elbow,  “  there’s 
differences  in  parsons,  an’t  there?  c  Cussed  be  Canaan’ 
don’t  seem  to  go  down  with  this  ’un,  does  it?  ” 

Haley  gave  an  uneasy  growl. 

“  And  that  ar  an’t  the  worst  on’t,”  said  John;  “  mabbe  it 
won’t  go  down  with  the  Lord,  neither,  when  ye  come  to  settle 
with  him,  one  o’  these  days,  as  all  on  us  must,  I  reckon.” 

Haley  walked  reflectively  to  the  other  end  of  the  boat. 

“  If  I  make  pretty  handsomely  on  one  or  two  next  gangs,” 
he  thought,  “  I  reckon  I’ll  stop  off  this  yer;  it’s  really  getting 
dangerous.”  And  he  took  out  his  pocketbook  and  began 
adding  over  his  accounts, — a  process  which  many  gentlemen 
besides  Mr.  Haley  have  found  a  specific  for  an  uneasy  con¬ 
science. 

The  boat  swept  proudly  away  from  the  shore,  and  all  went 
on  merrily,  as  before.  Men  talked,  and  loafed,  and  read,  and 
smoked.  Women  sewed,  and  children  played,  and  the  boat 
passed  on  her  way. 

One  day,  when  she  lay  to  for  a  while  at  a  small  town  in 
Kentucky,  Haley  went  up  into  the  place  on  a  little  matter  of 
business.  -  ft  ; 

Tom,  whose  fetters  did  not  prevent  his  taking  a  moderate 
circuit,  had  drawn  near  the  side  of  the  boat,  and  stood  list¬ 
lessly  gazing  over  the  railings.  After  a  time  he  saw  the 
trader  returning,  with  an  alert  step,  in  company  with,  a  mh 


m  FNCLK  TOM?S  CABJ3C  ■{  0Bt 

©red  woman,  bearing  in  her  arms  a  young  child.  She  was 
dressed  quite  respectably,  and  a  colored  man  followed  her, 
bringing  along  a  small  trunk.  The  woman  came  cheerfully 
onward,  talking,  as  she  came,  with  the  man  who  bore  her 
trunk,  and  so  passed  up  the  plank  into  the  boat.  The  bell 
rung,  the  steamer  whizzed,  the  engine  groaned  and  coughed, 
and  away  swept  the  boat  down  the  river. 

The  woman  walked  forward  among  the  boxes  and  bales  of 
the  lower  deck,  and,  sitting  down,  busied  herself  with  chir¬ 
ruping  to  her  baby. 

Haley  made  a  turn  or  two  about  the  boat,  and  then,  com¬ 
ing  up,  seated  himself  near  her,  and  began  saying  something 
to  her  in  an  indifferent  undertone. 

Tom  soon  noticed  a  heavy  cloud  passing  over  the  woman’s 
brow;  and  that  she  answered  rapidly,  and  with  great  vehe¬ 
mence. 

“  I  don’t  believe  it —I  won’t  believe  it!  ”  he  heard  her  say. 
“  You’re  jist  a-foolin’  with  me.” 

“If  you  won’t  believe  it,  look  here!  ”  said  the  man,  draw¬ 
ing  out  a  paper;  “  this  yer’s  the  bill  of  sale,  and  there’s  your 
master’s  name  to  it;  and  I  paid  down  good  solid  cash  for  it, 
too,  I  can  tell  you,— so,  row!  ” 

“I  don’t  believe  mas’r  would  cheat  me  so;  it  can’t  be 
true!  ”  said  the  woman,  with  increasing  agitation. 

“  You  can  ask  any  of  these  men  here,  that  can  read  writ¬ 
ing.  Here!”  he  said,  to  a  man  that  was  passing  by,  “jist 
read  this  yer,  won’t  you?  This  yer  gal  won’t  believe  me, 
when  7  tell  her  what  ’tis.” 

“  Why,  it’s  a  bill  of  sale,  signed  by  John  Fosdick,”  said  the 
man,  “  making  over  to  you  the  girl  Lucy  and  her  child.  It’s 
all  straight  enough,  for  aught  I  see.” 

The  woman’s  passionate  exclamations  collected  a  crowd 
around  her,  and  the  trader  briefly  explained  to  them  the 
cause  of  the  agitation. 

“He  told  me  that  I  was  going  down  to  Louisville  to  hire 
out  as  ccok  to  the  same  tavern  where  my  husband  works,— 
that’s  what  rnas’r  told,  his  own  self;  and  I  can’t  believe  he’d 
lie  to  me,”  said  the  woman. 

“  Eut  he  has  sold  you,  my  poor  woman,  there’s  no  doubt 
about  it,”  said  a  pnod-natured-looking  man,  who  had  been 
examining  the  papers;  “  he  has  done  it,  and  no  mistake.” 

“  Then  it’s  no  account  talking,”  said  the  woman,  suddenly 
growing  qiiite  calm;  and  clasping  her  .child-  tighter  in  he£ 


l$m  v AMONG  TH^^OWLY.^  12f 

arms,  she  sat  down  on  her  box,  turned  her  back  round,  and 
gazed  listlessly  into  the  river. 

“  Going  to  take  it  easy,  alter  all! ”'  said  the  trader.  .  “  Gal’s 
got  grit,  I  see.” 

The  woman  looked  calm,  as  the  boat  went  on;  and  a  beau¬ 
tiful  soft  summer  breeze  passed  like  a  compassionate  spirit 
over  her  head,— the  gentle  breeze,  that  never  inquires 
whether  the  brow  is  dusky  or  fair  that  it  fans.  And  she  saw 
sunshine  sparkling  on  the  water,  in  golden  ripples,  and  heard 
gay  voices,  full  of  ease  and  pleasure,  talking  around  her 
everywhere;  but  her  heart  lay  as  if  a  great  stone  had  fallen 
on  it.  Her  baby  raised  himself  up  against  her,  and  stroked 
her  cheeks  with  his  little  hands;  and,  springing  up  and 
down,  crowing  and  chatting,  seemed  determined  to  arouse 
her.  She  strained  him  suddenly  and  tightly  in  her  arms, 
and  slowly  one  tear  after  another  fell  on  his  wondering,  un¬ 
conscious  face;  and  gradually  she  seemed,  little  by  little,  to 
grow  calmer,  and  busied  herself  with  tending  and  nursing 
him. 

The  child,  a  boy  of  ten  months,  was  uncommonly  large  and 
strong  for  his  age,  and  very  vigorous  in  his  limbs.  Never 
for  a  moment  still,  he  kept  his  mother  constantly  busy  in 
holding  him,  and  guarding  his  springing  activity. 

“  That’s  a  fine  chap!  ”  said  a  man,  suddenly  stopping  oppo¬ 
site  to  him,  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets.  “  How  old  is  he?  ” 

“  Ten  months  and  a  half,”  said  the  mother. 

The  man  whistled  to  the  boy,  and  offered  him  part  of  a 
stick  of  candy,  which  he  eagerly  grabbed  at,  and  very  soon 
had  it  in  a  baby’s  general  depository,  to  wit,  his  mouth. 

“  Rum  fellow!  ”  said  the  man.  “  Knows  what’s  what!  ” 
and  he  whistled,  and  walked  on.  When  he  had  got  to  the 
other  side  of  the  boat  he  came  across  Haley,  who  was  smok¬ 
ing  on  top  of  a  pile  of  boxes. 

The  stranger  produced  a  match  and  lighted  a  cigar,  say¬ 
ing,  as  he  did  so: 

“  Decentish  kind  o’  wench  you’ve  got  round  there, 
stranger.” 

“  Why,  1  reckon  she  is  tol’able  fair,”  said  Haley,  blowing 
the  smoke  out  of  his  mouth. 

“  Taking  her  down  South?  ”  said  the  man. 

Haley  nodded,  and  smoked  on. 

“ Plantation  hand?”  said  the  man. 

“  Wal,”  said  Haley,  “  I’m  fillin’  out  an  order  for  a -plant*" 


W8  CTNCLB  TOMfS  CABIN  J  OB, 

tion,  and  I  think  I  shall  put  her  in.  They  telled  me  she  was 
a  good  cook;  and  they  can  use  her  for  that,  or  set  her  at  the 
cotton-picking.  She's  got  the  right  fingers  for  that;  I  looked 
at  'em.  Sell  well,  either  way; "  and  Haley  resumed  his 
cigar. 

“  They  won't  want  the  young  un  on  a  plantation/'  said  the 

man. 

“  I  shall  sell  him,  first  chance  I  find,"  said  Haley,  lighting 
another  cigar. 

“  S'pose  you'd  be  selling  him  tol'able  cheap,"  said  the 
stranger,  mounting  the  pile  of  boxes  and  sitting  down  com¬ 
fortably. 

“  Don't  know  'bout  that,"  said  Haley;  “  he's  a  pretty  smart 
young  un, — straight,  fat,  strong;  flesh  as  hard  as  a  brick! " 

“  Very  true,  but  then  there's  all  the  bother  and  expense  of 
raisin'." 

“  Nonsense! "  said  Haley;  “  they  is  raised  as  easy  as  any 
kind  of  crittur  there  is  going;  they  an't  a  bit  more  trouble 
than  pups.  This  yer  chap  will  be  running  all  round  in  a 
month." 

“  I've  got  a  good  place  for  raisin',  and  I  thought  of  takin' 
in  a  little  more  stock,"  said  the*  man.  “  Our  cook  lost  a 
young  un  last  week,- — got  drownded  in  a  washtub,  while  she 
was  a-hangin'  out  clothes, — and  I  reckon  it  would  be  well 
enough  to  set  her  to  raisin'  this  yer." 

Haley  and  the  stranger  smoked  a  while  in  silence,  neither 
seeming  willing  to  broach  the  test  question  of  the  interview. 
At  last  the  man  resumed: 

“  You  wouldn't  think  of  wantin'  more  than  ten  dollars  for 
that  ar  chap,  seeing  you  must  get  him  off  yer  hand,  anyhow?  " 

Haley  shook  his  head,  and  spit  impressively. 

“  That  won't  do,  noways,"  he  said,  and  began  his  smoking 
again. 

“Well,  stranger,  what  will  you  take?" 

“  Well,  l  ow,"  said  Haley,  “  I  could  raise  that  ar  chap  my¬ 
self,  or  get  him  raised;  he's  oncommon  likely  and  healthy, 
and  he'd  fetch  a  hundred  dollars,  six  months  hence;  and,  in 
a  year  or  two,  he'd  bring  two  hundred,  if  I  had  him  in  the 
right  spot;-— so  I  shan't  take  a  cent  less  nor  fifty  for  him 
now." 

“  Oh,  stranger!  that's  rediculous,  altogether,"  said  the 
man. 

**  Fact/'  said  Haley,  with  a  decisive  nod  of  his  head. 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY,  12# 

“Til  give  thirty  for  him,”  said  the  stranger,  “ but  net  & 
cent  more/" 

“  Now,  Ill  tell  ye  what  I  will  do.,”  said  Haley,  spitting 
again,  with  renewed  decision.  ■“  Ill  split  the  difference,  and 
eay  forty-five;  and  that’s  the  most  I  will  do.” 

“  Well,  agreed!  ”  said  the  man,  after  an  interval. 

“Done!”  said  Haley.  “Where  do  you  land?” 

“  At  Louisville,”  said  the  man. 

“  Louisville,”  said  Haley.  “  Very  fair,  we  get  there  about 
dusk.  Chap  will  be  asleep, — all  fair, — get  him  off  quietly, 
and  no  screaming,— happens  beautiful, — I  like  to  do  every¬ 
thing  quietly,— I  hates  all  kind  of  agitation  and  fluster.” 
And  so,  after  a  transfer  of  certain  bills  had  passed  from  the 
manJs  pocketbook  to  ihe  trader’s,  he  resumed  his  cigar. 

It  was  a  bright,  tranquil  evening  when  the  boat  stopped  at 
the  wharf  at  Louisville.  The  woman  had  been  sitting  wish 
her  baby  in  her  arms,  now  wrapped  in  a  heavy  sleep.  When 
she  heard  the  name  of  the  place  called  out  she  hastily  laid 
the  child  down  in  a  little  cradle  formed  by  the  hollow  among 
the  boxes,  first  carefully  spreading  under  it  her  cloak;  and 
then  she  sprung  to  the  side  of  the  beat  in  hopes  that,  among 
the  various  hotel-waiters  who  thronged  the  wharf,  she 
might  see  her  husband.  In  this  hope  she  pressed  forward 
to  the  front  rails,  and,  stretching  far  over  them,  strained 
her  eyes  intently  on  the  moving  heads  on  the  shore,  and 
the  crowd  pressed  in  between  her  and  the  child. 

“  Now’s  your  time,”  said  Haley,  taking  the  sleeping  child 
up  and  handing  him  to  the  stranger.  “  Don’t  wake  him  up, 
and  set  him  to  crying,  now;  it  would  make  a  devil  of  a  fuss 
with  the  gal.” 

The  man  took  the  bundle  carefully,  and  was  soon  lost  in 
the  crowd  that  went  up  the  wharf. 

When  the  boat,  creaking,  and  groaning,  and  puffing,  had 
loosed  from  the  wharf  and  was  beginning  slowly  to  strain 
herself  along,  the  woman  returned  to  her  old  seat.  The 
trader  was  sitting  there, — the  child  was  gone! 

“  Why,  why, — where?  ”  she  began,  in  bewildered  surprise. 

“  Lucy,”  said  the  trader,  “  your  child’s  gone,  you  may  as 
well  know  it  first  as  last.  You  see,  I  know’d  you  couldr/t 
take  him  down  South;  and  I  got  a  chance  to  sell  him  to  a 
first-rate  family  that  ’ll  raise  him  better  than  you  can.” 

The  trader  had  arrived  at  that  stage  of  Christian  and 
political  perfection  which  has  been  recommended  by  seme 


I3C  UNCLE  tom’s  cabin  ;  OR, 

preachers  and  politicians  of  the  North  lately,  in  which  he 
had  completely  overcome  every  human  weakness  and  preju¬ 
dice.  His  heart  was  exactly  where  yours,  sir,  and  mine 
could  be  brought,  with  proper  effort  and  cultivation.  The 
wild  look  of  anguish  and  utter  despair  that  the  woman  cast 
on  him  might  have  disturbed  one  less  practiced;  but  he  was 
used  to  it.  He  had  seen  that  same  look  hundreds  of  times. 
You  can  get  used  to  such  things,  too,  my  friend;  and  it  is 
the  great  object  of  recent  efforts  to  make  our  whole  North¬ 
ern  community  used  to  them,  for  the  glory  of  the  Union. 
So  the  trader  only  regarded  the  mortal  anguish  which  he 
saw  working  in  those  dark  features,  those  clenched  hands 
and  suffocating  breathings,  as  necessary  incidents  of  the 
trade,  and  merely  calculated  whether  she  was  going  to 
scream,  and  get  up  a  commotion  on  the  boat;  for,  like  other 
supporters  of  our  peculiar  institution,  he  decidedly  disliked 
agitation. 

But  the  woman  did  not  scream.  The  shot  had  passed 
too  straight  and  direct  through  the  heart  for  cry  or  tear. 

Dizzily  she  sat  down.  Her  slack  hands  fell  lifeless  by 
her  side.  Her  eyes  looked  straight  forward,  but  she  saw 
nothing.  All  the  noise  and  hum  of  the  boat,  the  groaning 
of  the  machinery,  mingled  dreamily  to  her  bewildered  ear; 
and  the  poor,  dumb-stricken  heart  had  neither  cry  nor  tear 
to  show  for  its  utter  misery.  She  was  quite  calm. 

The  trader,  who,  considering  his  advantages,  was  almost 
as  humane  as  some  of  our  politicians,  seemed  to  feel  called 
on  to  administer  such  consolation  as  the  case  admitted  of. 

“  I  know  this  yer  comes  kinder  hard,  at  first,  Lucy,”  said 
he;  “but  such  a  smart,  sensible  gal  as  you  are  won’t  give 
wav  to  it.  You  see  it’s  necessary  and  can’t  be  helped!  ” 

“  Oh,  don’t,  mas’r,  don’t!  ”  said  the  woman,  with  a  voice 
like  one  that  is  smothering. 

“  You’re  a  smart  wench,  Lucy,”  he  persisted;  “  I  mean  to 
do  well  by  ye,  and  get  ye  a  nice  place  down  river;  and  you’ll 
soon  get  another  husband,— such  a  likely  gal  as  you — — ” 

“  Oh,  mash,  if  you  only  won’t  talk  to  me  now,”  said  the 
woman,  in  a  voice  of  such  quick  and  living  anguish  that  the 
trader  felt  that  there  was  something  at  present  in  the  case 
beyond  his  style  of  operation.  He  got  up,  and  the  woman 
turned  away,  and  buried  her  head  in  her  cloak. 

The  t walked  up  and  down  for  a  time,  and.  occasion* 
idly  ‘M  looked  at  her. 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY, 


181 


u  Takes  it  hard,  rather,”  he  soliloquized,  “  but  quiet,  tho? 
—let  her  sweat  a  while;  she’ll  come  right,  by  and  by!  ” 

Tom  had  watched  the  whole  transaction  from  first  to  last, 
and  had  a  perfect  understanding  of  its  results.  To  him  it 
looked  like  something  unutterably  horrible  and  cruel,  be¬ 
cause,  poor,  ignorant  black  soul!  he  had  not  learned  to  gen¬ 
eralize  and  to  take  enlarged  views.  If  he  had  only  been 
instructed  by  certain  ministers  of  Christianity,  he  might 
have  thought  better  of  it,  and  seen  in  it  an  every-day  inci¬ 
dent  of  a  lawful  trade;  a  trade  which  is  the  vital  support  of 
an  institution  which  some  American  divines  tell  us  has  no 
evils  but  such  as  are  inseparable  from  any  other  relations 
in  social  and  domestic  life.  But  Tom,  as  we  see,  being  a 
poor,  ignorant  fellow",  whose  reading  had  been  confined  en¬ 
tirely  to  the  New  Testament,  could  not  comfort  and  solace 
himself  with  views  like  these.  His  very  soul  bled  within 
him  for  what  seemed  to  him  the  wrongs  of  the  poor  suffering 
thing  that  lay  like  a  crushed  reed  on  the  boxes;  the  feeling, 
living,  bleeding,  yet  immortal  thing  which  American  state 
law  coolly  classes  with  the  bundles,  and  bales,  and  boxes 
among  which  she  is  lying. 

Tom  drew  near,  and  tried  to  say  something;  but  she  only 
groaned.  Honestly,  and  with  tears  running  down  his  own 
cheeks,  he  spoke  of  a  heart  of  love  in  the  skies,  of  a  pitying 
Jesus,  and  an  eternal  home;  but  the  ear  was  deaf  with  an¬ 
guish,  and  the  palsied  heart  could  not  feel. 

Night  came  oil,— night  calm,  unmoved,  and  glorious,  shin¬ 
ing  down  with  her  innumerable  and  solemn  angel  eyes, 
twinkling,  beautiful,  but  silent.  There  was  no  speech  nor 
language,  no  pitying  voice  nor  helping  hand,  from  that  dis¬ 
tant  sky.  One  after  another  the  voices  of  business  or  pleas¬ 
ure  died  away;  all  on  the  boat  were  sleeping,  and  the  ripples 
at  the  prow  were  plainly  heard.  Tom  stretched  himself  out 
on  a  box,  and  there,  as  he  lay,  he  heard  ever  and  anon  a 
smothered  sob  or  cry  from  the  prostrate  creature,— a  Oh! 
what  shall  I  do?  0  Lord!  0  good  Lord,  do  help  me!  ”  and 
so  ever  and  anon  until  the  murmur  died  away  in  silence. 

At  midnight  Tom  waked,  with  a  sndden  start.  Some¬ 
thing  black  passed  quicfly  by  him  to  the  side  of  the  boat, 
and  he  heard  a  splash  in  the  water.  No  one  else  saw  or 
heard  anything.  He  raised  his  head, — the  woman’s  place 
was  vacant!  He  got  np,  and  sought  about  him  in  vain. 
The  poor  bleeding  heart  was  still  at  last,  and  the  river 


132  uncle  tom’s  cabin;  or, 

rippled  and  dimpled  just  as  brightly  as  if  it  had  not  closed 
above  it. 

Patience!  patience!  ye  whose  hearts  swell  indignant  at 
wrongs  like  these.  Not  one  throb  of  anguish,  not  one  tear 
of  the  oppressed,  is  forgotten  by  the  Man  of  Sorrows,  the 
Lord  of  Glory.  In  his  patient,  generous  bosom  he  bears  the 
anguish  of  a  world.  Bear  thou,  like  him,  in  patience,  and 
labor  in  love!  for  sure  as  he  is  God,  “  the  year  of  his  re- 
deemed  shall  come.” 

The  trader  waked  up  bright  and  early  and  came  out  to  see 
to  his  live  stock.  It  was  now  his  turn  to  look  about  in  per¬ 
plexity. 

“  Where  alive  is  that  gal?  "  he  said  to  Tom. 

Tom,  who  had  learned  the  wisdom  of  keeping  counsel,  did 
not  feel  called  on  to  state  his  observations  and  suspicions, 
but  said  he  did  not  know. 

66  She  surely  couldn't  have  got  off  in  the  night  at  any  of 
the  landings,  for  I  was  awake,  and  on  the  lookout,  whenever 
the  boat  stopped.  I  never  trust  these  ver  things  to  other 
folks/' 

This  speech  was  addressed  to  Tom  quite  confidentially,  as 
if  it  was  something  that  would  be  especially  interesting  to 
him.  Torn  made  no  answer. 

The  trader  searched  the  boat  from  stem  to  stern,  among 
boxes,  bales,  and  barrels,  around  the  machinery,  by  the 
chimneys,  in  vain. 

“  Now,  I  say,  Tom,  be  fair  about  this  yer,"  he  said,  when, 
after  a  fruitless  search,  he  came  where  Tom  was  standing. 
“  You  know  something  about  it,  now.  Don't  tell  me, — A 
know  you  do.  I  saw  the  gal  stretched  out  here  about  ten 
o'clock,  and  ag'in  at  twelve,  and  ag'in  between  one  and  two; 
and  then  at  four  she  was  gone,  and  you  was  a-sleeping  right 
there  all  the  time.  Now,  you  know  something, — -you  can't 
help  it." 

“  Well,  mas'r,"  said  Tom,  “  toward  morning  something 
brushed  by  me,  and  I  kinder  half  woke;  and  then  I  hearn  a 
great  splash,  and  then  I  clare  woke  up,  and  the  gal  was 
gone.  That's  all  I  know  on't." 

The  trader  was  not  shocked  nor  amazed;  because,  as  we 
said  before,  he  was  used  to  a  great  many  things  that  you  are 
not  used  to.  Even  the  awful  presence  of  Death  struck  no 
solemn  chill  upon  him.  He  had  seen  Death  many  times, — 
met  him  in  the  way  of  trade,  and  got  acquainted  with  him, 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY.  133 

—and  he  only  thought  of  him  as  a  hart  customer,  that  em¬ 
barrassed  his  property  operations  very  unfairly;  and  so  he 
only  swore  that  the  gal  was  a  baggage,  and  that  he  was 
devilish  unlucky,  and  that,  if  things  went  on  in  this  way, 
he  should  not  make  a  cent  on  the  trip.  In  short,  he  seemed 
to  consider  himself  an  ill-used  man,  decidedly;  but  there 
was  no  help  for  it,  as  the  woman  had  escaped  into  a  state 
which  never  will  give  up  a  fugitive, — not  even  at  the  demand 
of  the  whole  glorious  Union.  The  trader,  therefore,  sat 
discontentedly  down,  with  his  little  account-book,  and  put 
down  the  missing  body  and  soul  under  the  head  of  losses! 

“  He's  a  shocking  creature,  isn’t  he,— this  trader?  so  un¬ 
feeling!  It’s  dreadful,  really!  ” 

“  Oh,  but  nobody  thinks  anything  of  these  traders!  They 
are  universally  despised,— never  received  into  any  decent 
society.” 

But  who,  sir,  makes  the  trader?  Who  is  most  to  blame? 
The  enlightened,  cultivated,  intelligent  man  who  supports 
the  system  of  which  the  trader  is  the  inevitable  result,  or 
the  poor  trader  himself?  You  make  the  public  sentiment 
that  calls  for  his  trade,  that  debauches  and  depraves  him  till 
he  feels  no  shame  in  it;  and  in  wrhat  are  you  better  than  he? 

Are  you  educated  and  he  ignorant,  you  high  and  he 
low,  you  refined  and  he  coarse,  you  talented  and  he  simple? 

Im  the  day  of  a  future  Judgment  these  very  considera¬ 
tions  may  make  it  more  tolerable  for  him  than  for  you. 

In  concluding  these  little  incidents  of  lawful  trade,  we 
must  beg  the  world  not  to  think  that  American  legislators 
are  entirely  destitute  of  humanity,  as  might,  perhaps,  be 
unfairly  inferred  from  the  great  efforts  made  in  our  national 
body  to  protect  and  perpetuate  this  species  of  traffic. 

Who  does  not  know  how  our  great  men  are  outdoing 
themselves  in  declaiming  against  the  foreign  slave-trade? 
There  are  a  perfect  host  of  Clarksons  and  Wilberforces 
risen  up  among  us  on  that  subject,  most  edifying  to  hear 
and  behold.  Trading  negroes  from  Africa,  dear  reader,  is 
so  horrid.  It  is  not  to  be  thought  of!  But  trading  them 
from  Kentucky,  that’s  quite  another  thing! 


134  toolk  : tom's  cabin;  oBf 

CHAPTER  XIII. 

THE  QUAKER  SETTLEMENT. 

A  quiet  scene  now  rises  before  us.  A  large,  roomy* 
neatly  painted  kitchen,  its  yellow  floor  glossy  and  smooth, 
and  without  a  particle  of  dust;  a  neat,  well-blacked  cooking- 
stove;  rows  of  shining  tin,  suggestive  of  unmentionable  good 
things  to  the  appetite;  glossy  green  wooden  chairs,  old  and 
firm;  a  small  flag-bottomed  rocking-chair,  with  a  patchwork 
cushion  in  it,  neatly  contrived  out  of  small  pieces  of  differ¬ 
ent-colored  woolen  goods,  and  a  larger-sized  one,  motherly 
and  old,  whose  wide  aims  breathed  hospitable  invitation, 
seconded  by  the  solicitation  of  its  feather  cushions, — a  real 
comfortable,  persuasive  old  chair,  and  worth,  in  the  way  of 
holiest,  homely  enjoyment,  a  dozen  of  your  plush  or  broca- 
telle  drawing-room  gentry;  and  in  the  chair,  gently  swaying 
back  and  forward,  her  eyes  bent  on  some  fine  sewing,  sat  our 
old  friend  Eliza.  Yes,  there  she  is,  paler  and  thinner  than 
in  her  Kentucky  home,  with  a  world  of  quiet  sorrow  lying 
under  the  shadow  of  her  long  eyelashes,  and  marking  the 
outline  of  her  gentle  mouth!  It  was  plain  to  see  how  old 
and  firm  the  girlish  heart  was  grown  under  the  discipline 
of  heavy  sorrows;  and  when,  anon,  her  large  dark  eye  was 
raised  to  follow  the  gambols  of  her  little  Harry,  who  was 
sporting  like  some  tropical  butterfly  hither  and  thither 
over  the  floor,  she  showed  a  depth  of  firmness  and 
steady  resolve  that  was  never  there  in  her  earlier  and  hap¬ 
pier  days. 

By  her  side  sat  a  woman  with  a  bright  tin  pan  in  her  lap, 
into  which  she  was  carefully  sorting  some  dried  peaches. 
She  might  be  fifty-five  or  sixty;  but  hers  was  one  of  those 
faces  that  time  seems  to  touch  only  to  brighten  and  adorn. 
The  snowy  lisse  crape  cap,  made  after  the  straight  Quaker 
pattern, — the  plain  white  muslin  handkerchief,  lying  in 
placid  folds  across  her  bosom,— the  drab  shawl  and  dress,' — 
showed  at  once  the  community  to  which  she  belonged.  Her 
face  was  round  and  rosy,  with  a  healthful  downy  softness, 
suggestive  of  a  ripe  peach.  Her  hair,  partially  silvered  by 
age,  was  parted  smoothly  back  from  a  high,  placid  forehead, 
on  which  time  had  written  no  inscription,  except  “  Peace  on 
earth,  good  will  to  men,”  and  beneath  shone  a  large  pair  of 


LIFB  AMONG  THB  LOWLtf*  135 

elear,  honest,  loving  brown  eyes;  you  only  needed  to  look 
straight  into  them  to  feel  that  you  saw  to  the  bottom  of  a 
heart  as  good  and  true  as  ever  throbbed  in  woman’s  bosom. 
So  much  has  been  said  and  sung  of  beautiful  young  girls, 
why  don’t  somebody  wake  up  to  the  beauty  of  old  women? 
If  any  want  to  get  up  an  inspiration  under  this  head,  we 
refer  them  to  our  good  friend  Rachel  Halliday,  just  as  she 
sits  there  in  her  little  rocking-chair.  It  had  a  turn  for 
quacking,  and  squeaking— that  chair  had,— either  from  hav¬ 
ing  taken  cold  in  eariy  life,  or  from  some  asthmatic  affec¬ 
tion,  or  perhaps  from  nervous  derangement;  but,  as  she 
gently  swung  backward  and  forward,  the  chair  kept  up  a 
kind  of  subdued  “  creechy  crawchy,”  that  would  have  been 
intolerable  in  any  other  chair.  But  old  Simeon  Halliday 
often  declared  it  was  as  good  as  any  music  to  him,  and  the 
children  all  avowed  that  they  wouldn’t  miss  of  hearing 
mother’s  chair  for  anything  in  the  world.  For  why?  for 
twenty  years  or  more  nothing  but  loving  words,  and  gentle 
moralities,  and  motherly  loving-kindness,  had  come  from 
that  chair; — headaches  and  heartaches  innumerable  had 
been  cured  there,— difficulties  spiritual  and  temporal  solved 
there,— all  by  one  good,  loving  woman,  God  bless  her! 

“  And  so  thee  still  thinks  of  going  to  Canada,  Eliza?  ”  she 
said,  as  she  was  quietly  looking  over  her  peaches. 

“  Yes,  ma’am,”  said  Eliza  firmly.  “  I  must  go  onward. 
I  dare  not  stop.” 

“  And  what  ’ll  thee  do,  when  thee  gets  there?  Thee  must 
think  about  that,  my  daughter.” 

“  Mv  daughter  ”  came  naturally  from  the  lips  of  Rachel 
Halliday;  for  hers  was  just  the  face  and  form  that  made 
“  mother  ”  seem  the  most  natural  word  in  the  world. 

Eliza’s  hands  trembled,  and  some  tears  fell  on  her  fine 
work;  but  she  answered  firmly: 

“  I  shall  do— anything  I  can  find.  I  hope  I  can  find 
something.” 

“  Thee  knows  thee  can  stay  here,  as  long  as  thee  pleases,” 
said  Rachel. 

“  Oh,  thank  you,”  said  Eliza,  “  but  ” — she  pointed  to 
Harry — “  I  can’t  sleep  nights;  I  can’t  rest.  Last  night 
I  dreamed  I  saw  that  man  coming  into  the  yard,”  she  said, 
shuddering. 

? Poor  child!”  said  Rachel,  wiping  her  eyes;  “ but  thee 
mustn’t  feel  so.  The  Lord  hath  ordered  it  so  that  never, 


136 


VNCLB  TOM’b  CABIN  ;  OB, 

hath  a  fugitive  been  stolen  from  our  village.  I  trust  thine 
will  not  be  the  first.” 

The  door  here  opened  and  a  little,  short,  round,  pin- 
cushiony  woman  stood  at  the  door,  with  a  cheery,  blooming 
face,  like  a  ripe  apple.  She  was  dressed,  like  Rachel,  in 
sober  gray,  with  the  muslin  folded  neatly  across  her  round, 
plump  little  chest. 

“  Ruth  Stedman,”  said  Rachel,  coming  joyfully  forward; 
“how  is  thee,  Ruth?”  she  said,  heartily  taking  both  her 
hands. 

“  Nicely,”  said  Ruth,  taking  off  her  little  drab  bonnet,  and 
dusting  it  with  her  handkerchief,  displaying,  as  she  did  so, 
a  round  little  head,  on  which  the  Quaker  cap  sat  with  a  sort 
of  jaunty  air,  despite  all  the  stroking  and  patting  of  the 
small  fat  hands  which  were  busily  applied  to  arranging  it. 
Certain  stray  locks  of  decidedly  curling  hair,  too,  had  es¬ 
caped  here  and  there,  and  had  to  be  coaxed  and  cajoled  into 
their  place  again;  and  then  the  newcomer,  who  might  have 
been  five-and- twenty,  turned  from  the  small  looking-glass, 
before  which  she  had  been  making  these  arrangements,  and 
looked  well  pleased, — as  most  people  who  looked  at  her 
might  have  been, — for  she  was  decidedly  a  wholesome, 
whole-hearted,  chirruping  little  woman  as  ever  gladdened 
man’s  heart  withal. 

“Ruth,  this  friend  is  Eliza  Harris;  and  this  is  the  little 
boy  I  told  thee  of.” 

“  I  am  glad  to  see  thee,  Eliza,— very,”  said  Ruth,  shaking 
bands,  as  if  Eliza  were  an  old  friend  she  had  long  been  ex¬ 
pecting;  “  and  this  is  thy  dear  boy, — I  brought  a  cake  for 
him,”  she  said,  holding  out  a  little  heart  to  the  boy,  who 
came  lip,  gazing  through  his  curls,  and  accepted  it  shyly. 

“Where’s  thy  baby,  Ruth?”  said  Rachel. 

“  Oh,  he’s  coming;  but  thy  Mary  caught  him  as  I  came  in, 
and  ran  off  with  him  to  the  barn,  to  show  him  to  the  chil¬ 
dren.” 

At  this  moment  the  door  opened  and  Mary,  an  honest, 
rosv-looking  girl,  with  large  brown  eyes,  like  her  mother’s, 
came  in  with  the  baby. 

“Ah,  ha!  ”  said  Rachel,  coming  up  and  taking  the  great, 
white,  fat  fellow  in  her  arms;  “  how  good  he  looks,  and  how 
he  does  grow!  ” 

“  To  be  sure,  he  does,”  said  little  bustling  Ruth,  as  she 
took  the  child  and  began  taking  off  a  little  blue  silk  hood. 


LIFE  AMOBTG  THIS  LOWLY. 

and  various  layers  and  wrappers  of  outer  garments;  and  hav¬ 
ing  given  a  twitch  here,  and  a  pull  there,  and  variously 
adjusted  and  arranged  him,  and  kissed  him  heartily,  she  set 
him  on  the  floor  to  collect  his  thoughts.  Baby  seemed 
quite  used  to  this  mode  of  proceeding,  for  he  put  his  thumb 
in  his  mouth  (as  if  it  were  quite  a  thing  of  course),  and 
seemed  soon  absorbed  in  his  own  reflections,  while  the 
mother  seated  herself,  and,  taking  out  a  long  stocking  of 
mixed  blue  and  white  yarn,  began  to  knit  with  briskness. 

“  Mary,  thee’d  better  fill  the  kettle,  hadn’t  thee?  ”  gently 
suggested  the  mother. 

Mary  took  the  kettle  to  the  well,  and  soon  reappearing, 
placed  it  over  the  stove,  where  it  was  soon  purring  and 
steaming,  a  sort  of  censer  of  hospitality  and  good  cheer. 
The  peaches,  moreover,  in  obedience  to  a  few  gentle  whis¬ 
pers  from  Rachel,  wTere  soon  deposited,  by  the  same  hand,  in 
a  stewpan  over  the  fire. 

Rachel  now  took  down  a  snowy  molding-board,  and,  tying 
on  an  apron,  proceeded  quietly  to  making  up  some  biscuits, 
first  saying  to  Mary,  “  Mary,  hadn’t  thee  better  tell  John  to 
get  a  chicken  ready?  ”  and  Mary  disappeared  accordingly. 

“And  how  is  Abigail  Peters?”  said  Rachel,  as  she  went 
on  with  her  biscuits. 

“Oh,  she’s  better,”  said  Ruth;  “I  was  in,  this  morning, 
made  the  bed,  tidied  up  the  house.  Leah  Hills  went  in  tins 
afternoon  and  baked  bread  and  pies  enough  to  last  some 
days;  and  I  engaged  to  go  back  to  get  her  up  this  evening.” 

“I  will  go  in  to-morrow  and  do  any  cleaning  there  may 
be,  and  look  over  the  mending,”  said  Rachel. 

“Ah!  that  is  well,”  said  Ruth.  “I’ve  heard,”  she  added, 
“that  Hannah  Stanwood  is  sick.  John  was  up  there  last 
night, — I  must  go  there  to-morrow.” 

“  John  can  come  in  here  to  his  meals,  if  thee  needs  to  stay 
all  day,”  suggested  Rachel. 

“  Thank  thee,  Rachel;  we’ll  see  to-morrow;  but  here  comes 
Simeon.” 

Simeon  Halliday,  a  tall,  straight,  muscular  man,  in  drab 
coat  and  pantaloons,  and  broad-brimmed  hat,  now  entered. 

“How  is  thee,  Ruth?”  he  said  warmly,  as  he  spread  his 
broad  open  hand  for  her  little  fat  palm;  “  and  how  is 
John?” 

“Oh,  John  is  well,  and  all  the  rest  of  our  folks,”  said 
Ruth  cheerily. 


IBS 


TJHCLB  TOM’®  CABIN  J  OB? 

“  Any  news,  father?  ”  said  Rachel,  as  she  was  putting  Kef 
biscuits  into  the  oven. 

“  Peter  Stebbins  told  me  that  they  should  be  along  to¬ 
night,  with  friends  said  Simeon  significantly,  as  he  was 
washing  his  hands  at  a  neat  sink  in  a  little  back  porch. 

“  Indeed!  ”  said  Rachel,  looking  thoughtful,  and  glancing 
at  Eliza. 

“Did  thee  say  thy  name  was  Harris? ”  said  Simeon  to 
Eliza  as  he  re-entered. 

Rachel  glanced  quickly  at  her  husband,  as  Eliza  tremu¬ 
lously  answered  “Yes”;  her  fears,  ever  uppermost,  sug¬ 
gesting  that  possibly  there  might  be  advertisements  out 
for  her. 

“  Mother!  ”  said  Simeon,  standing  in  the  porch,  and  call¬ 
ing  Rachel  out. 

“What  does  thee  want,  father?”  said  Rachel,  rubbing 
her  floury  hands  as  she  went  into  the  porch. 

“  This  child’s  husband  is  in  the  settlement,  and  will  be 
here  to-night,”  said  Simeon. 

“Now,  thee  doesn’t  say  that,  father?”  said  Rachel,  all 
her  face  radiant  with  jov. 

“  It’s  really  true.  Peter  was  down  yesterday,  with  the 
wagon,  to  the  other  stand,  and  there  he  found  an  old  woman 
and  two  men;  and  one  said  his  name  was  George  Harris,  and, 
from  what  he  told  of  his  history,  I  am  certain  who  he  is. 
He  is  a  bright,  likely  fellow,  too.  Shall  we  tell  her  now?” 
said  Simeon. 

“  Let’s  tell  Ruth,”  said  Rachel.  “  Here,  Ruth,— come 
here.” 

Ruth  laid  down  her  knitting-work,  and  was  in  the  back 
porch  in  a  moment. 

“Ruth,  what  does  thee  think?”  said  Rachel.  “Father 
says  Eliza’s  husband  is  in  the  last  company,  and  will  be  here 
to-night.” 

A  burst  of  joy  from  the  little  Quakeress  interrupted  the 
speech.  She  gave  such  a  bound  from  the  floor,  as  she 
clapped  her  little  hands,  that  two  stray  curls  fell  from  under 
her  Quaker  cap,  and  lay  brightly  on  her  white  neckerchief. 

“Hush  thee,  dear!”  said  Rachel  gently;  “hush,  Ruth! 
Tell  us,  shall  we  tell  her  now?  ” 

“Now!  to  be  sure,— this  very  minute.  Why,  now,  sup¬ 
pose  ’twas  my  John,  how  should  I  feel?  Do  tell  her,  right 
off/’ 


UEFE  AMONG  THE  &OWLY. 


13© 

*  Thee  uses  thyself  only  to  learn  how  to  love  thy  neigh¬ 
bor,  Ruth/5  said  Simeon,  looking  with  a  beaming  face  on 
Ruth. 

“  To  be  sure.  Isn’t  it  what  we  are  made  for?  If  I  didn’t 
love  John  and  the  baby,  I  should  not  know  how  to  feel  for 
her.  Come,  now,  do  tell  her,— do!  ”  and  she  laid  her  hands 
persuasively  on  Rachel’s  arm.  “  Take  her  into  thy  bed¬ 
room,  there,  and  let  me  fry  the  chicken  while  thee  does  it.” 

Rachel  came  out  into  the  kitchen,  where  Eliza  was  sewing, 
and  opening  the  door  of  a  small  bedroom,  said  gently, 
“  Come  in  here  with  me,  my  daughter;  I  have  news  to  tell 
thee.” 

The  blood  flushed  in  Eliza’s  pale  face;  she  rose,  trembling 
with  nervous  anxiety,  and  looked  toward  her  boy. 

“No,  no,”  said  little  Ruth,  darting  up,  and  seizing  her 
hands.  “  Never  thee  fear;  it’s  good  news,  Eliza, — go  in,  go 
in!  ”  And  she  gently  pushed  her  to  the  door,  which  closed 
after  her;  and  then,  turning  round,  she  caught  little  Harry 
in  her  arms,  and  began  kissing  him. 

“  Thee’ll  see  thy  father,  little  one.  Does  thee  know  it? 
Thy  father  is  coming,”  she  said,  over  and  over  again,  as  the 
boy  looked  wonderingly  at  her. 

Meanwhile,  within  the  door,  another  scene  was  going  on. 
Rachel  Halliday  drew  Eliza  toward  her,  and  said,  “  The 
Lord  hath  had  mercy  on  thee,  daughter;  thy  husband  hath 
escaped  from  the  house  of  bondage.” 

The  blood  flushed  to  Eliza’s  cheek  in  a  sudden  glow,  and 
went  back  to  her  heart  with  as  sudden  a  rush.  She  sat 
down,  pale  and  faint. 

“  Have  courage,  child,”  said  Rachel,  laying  her  hand  on 
her  head.  “  He  is  among  friends,  who  will  bring  him  here 
to-night.” 

“To-night!”  Eliza  repeated,  “to-night!”  The  words 
lost  all  meaning  to  her;  her  head  was  dreamy  and  confused; 
all  was  mist  for  a  moment 

When  she  awoke  she  found  herself  snugly  tucked  up  on 
the  bed,  with  a  blanket  over  her,  and  little  Ruth  rubbing 
her  hands  with  camphor.  She  opened  her  eyes  in  a  state  of 
dreamy,  delicious  languor,  such  as  one  has  who  has  long 
been  bearing  a  heavy  load,  and  now  feels  it  gone,  and  would 
rest.  The  tension  of  the  nerves,  which  had  never  ceased  a 
moment  since  the  first  hour  of  her  flight,  had  given  way,  and 


140 


UNCLB  T0M?8  CABIN;  OB* 

a  strange  feeling  of  security  and  rest  came  over  $**■. ,  wad,  as 
she  lay,  with  her  large  dark^yes  open,  she  followed,  as  in 
a  quiet  dream,  the  motions  or  those  about  her.  She  saw  the 
door  open  into  the  other  room;  saw  the  supper  table,  with 
its  snowy  cloth;  heard  the  dreamy  murmur  of  the  singing 
tea-kettle;  saw’  Ruth  tripping  backward  and  forward  with 
plates  of  cake  and  saucers  of  preserves,  and  ever  and  anon 
stopping  to  put  a  cake  into  Harry’s  hand,  or  pat  his  head,  or 
twine  his  long  curls  round  her  snowy  fingers.  She  saw  the 
ample,  motherly  form  of  Rachel,  as  she  ever  and  anon  came 
to  the  bedside,  and  smoothed  and  arranged  something  about 
the  bedclothes,  and  gave  a  tuck  here  and  there,  by  way  of 
expressing  her  good  will;  and  was  conscious  of  a  kind  of 
sunshine  beaming  down  upon  her  from  her  large,  clear, 
brown  eyes.  She  saw  Ruth’s  husband  come  in, — saw  her 
fly  up  to  him,  and  commence  whispering  very  earnestly,  ever 
and  anon,  with  impressive  gestures,  pointing  her  little  fin¬ 
ger  toward  the  room.  She  saw  her  with  the  baby  in  her 
arms  sitting  down  to  tea;  she  saw  them  all  at  table,  and 
little  Harry  in  a  high-chair  under  the  shadow  of  Rachel’s 
ample  wing;  there  were  low  murmurs  of  talk,  gentle  tinkling 
of  teaspoons,  and  musical  clatter  of  cups  and  saucers,  and 
all  mingled  in  a  delightful  dream  of  rest;  and  Eliza  slept,  as 
she  had  not  slept  before,  since  the  fearful  midnight  hour 
when  she  had  taken  her  child  and  fled  through  the  frosty 
starlight. 

She  dreamed  of  a  beautif  ul  country,— a  land,  it  seemed  to 
her,  of  rest, — green  shores,  pleasant  islands,  and  beautifully 
glittering  water,  and  there,  in  a  house  which  kind  voices 
told  her  was  a  home,  she  saw  her  boy  playing,  a  free 
and  happy  child.  She  heard  her  husband’s  footsteps;  she 
felt  him  coming  nearer;  his  arms  were  around  her,  his  tears 
falling  on  her  face,  and  she  awoke!  It  was  no  dream.  The 
daylight  had  long  faded;  her  child  lay  calmly  sleeping  by 
her  side;  a  candle  was  burning  dimly  on  the  stand,  and  her 
husband  was  sobbing  by  her  pillow. 

The  next  morning  was  a  cheerful  one  at  the  Quaker 
house.  “  Mother  ”  was  up  betimes,  and  surrounded  by  busy 
girls  and  boys,  whom  we  had  scarce  time  to  introduce  to  our 
readers  yesterday,  and  who  all  moved  obediently  to  Rachel’s 
gentle  “  Thee  had  better,”  or  more  gentle  “  Hadn’t  thee 
better?  ”  in  the  work  of  getting  breakfast;  for  a  breakfast  in 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY. 


1:41 


the  luxurious  valleys  of  Indiana  is  a  thing  complicated  and 
multiform,-  and,  like  piekihg^tp  "the  rose  leaves  and  trim¬ 
ming' the  bushes  in  Faradise,  asking  other  hands  than  those 
of  the  original  mother.  While,  therefore,  John  ran  to  the 
spring  for  fresh  water,  and  Simeon  the  second  sifted  meal 
for  corn-cakes,  and  Mary  ground  coffee,  Eachel  moved 
gently  and  quietly  about,  making  biscuits,  cutting  up 
chicken,  and  diffusing  a  sort  of  sunny  radiance  over  the 
whole  proceeding  generally.  If  there  was  any  danger  of 
friction  or  collision  from  the  ill-regulated  zeal  of  so  many 
young  operators,  her  gentle  u  Come!  come! 99  or  “  I  wouldiPt 
now,”  was  quite  sufficient  to  allay  the  difficulty.  Bards 
have  written  of  the  cestus  of  Yenus,  that  turned  the  heads 
of  all  the  world  in  successive  generations.  We  had  rather, 
for  our  part,  have  the  cestus  of  Rachel  Halliday,  that  kept 
heads  from  being  turned,  and  made  everything  go  on  har¬ 
moniously.  We  think  it  is  more  suited  to  our  modern  days 
decidedly. 

While  all  other  preparations  were  going  on,  Simeon  the 
elder  stood  in  his  shirt  sleeves  before  a  little  looking-glass 
in  the  corner,  engaged  in  the  anti-patriarchal  operation  of 
shaving.  Everything  went  on  so  sociably,  so  quietly,  so 
harmoniously,  in  the  great  kitchen, —it  seemed  so  pleasant 
to  everyone  to  do  just  what  they  were  doing,  there  was  such 
an  atmosphere  of  mutual  confidence  and  goodfellowship 
everywhere,— even  the  knives  and  forks  had  a  social  clatter 
as  they  went  on  to  the  table;  and  the  chicken  and  ham  had  a 
cheerful  and  joyous  fizzle  in  the  pan,  as  if  they  rather  en¬ 
joyed  being  cooked  than  otherwise; — and  when  George  and 
Eliza  and  little  Harry  came  out,  they  met  such  a  hearty, 
rejoicing  welcome,  no  wonder  it  seemed  to  them  like  a 
dream. 

At  last  they  were  all  seated  at  breakfast,  while  Mary  stood 
at  the  stove  baking  griddle-cakes,  which,  as  they  gained  the 
true,  exact,  golden-brown  tint  of  perfection,  were  trans- 
ferrred  quite  handily  to  the  table. 

Rachel  never  looked  so  truly  and  benignly  happy  as  at  the 
head  of  her  table.  There  was  so  much  motherliness  and 
full-heartedness  even  in  the  way  she  passed  a  plate  of  cakes 
or  poured  a  cup  of  coffee,  that  it  seemed  to  put  a  spirit  into 
the  food  and  drink  she  offered. 

It  wes  the  first  time  that  ever  George  had  sat  down  on 
equal  L  .  ::i:  at  any  white  man's  table;  and  he  sat  down,  at 


142 


UNCLE  TOM’S  CABIN  J  OB, 

first,  with  some  constraint  and  awkwardness;  but  they, 
exhaled  and  went  off  like  fog,  in  the  genial  morning  rays  of 
this  simple,  overflowing  kindness. 

This,  indeed,  was  a  home, — home,— a  word  that  George 
had  never  yei  known  a  meaning  for;  and  a  belief  in  God,  and 
trust  in  his  providence,  began  to  encircle  his  heart,  as  with 
a  golden  cloud  of  protection  and  confidence;  dark,  misan¬ 
thrope  pining,  atheistic  doubts  and  fierce  despair  melted 
away  beiore  the  light  of  a  living  gospel,  breathed  in  living 
faces,  preached  by  a  thousand  unconscious  acts  of  love  and 
good  will,  which,  like  the  cup  of  cold  water  given  in  the 
name  of  a  disciple,  shall  never  lose  their  reward. 

“  Father,  what  if  thee  should  get  found  out  again?  ”  said 
Simeon  second,  as  he  buttered  his  cake. 

“  I  should  pay  my  fine,”  said  Simeon  quietly. 

“But  what  if  they  put  thee  in  prison?” 

“Couldn't  thee  and  mother  manage  the  farm?”  said 
Simeon,  smiling. 

“  Mother  can  do  almost  everything,”  said  the  boy.  “  But 
isn’t  it  a  shame  to  make  such  laws?  ” 

“  Thee  mustn’t  speak  evil  of  tliy  rulers,  Simeon,”  said  his 
father  gravely.  “  The  Lord  only’  gives  us  our  worldly 
goods  that  we  may  do  justice  and  mercy;  if  our  rulers  re¬ 
quire  a  price  of  us  for  it,  we  must  deliver  it  up.” 

“  Well,  I  hate  those  old  slave-holders!  ”  said  the  boy,  who 
felt  as  unchristian  as  became  any  modern  reformer. 

“  I  am  surprised  at  thee,  son,”  said  Simeon;  “  thy  mother 
never  taught  thee  so.  I  would  do  even  the  same  for  the 
slave-holder  as  for  the  slave,  if  the  Lord  brought  him  to  my 
door  in  affliction.” 

Simeon  second  blushed  scarlet;  but  his  mother  only 
smiled,  and  said,  “  Simeon  is  my  good  boy;  he  will  grow 
older,  by  and  by,  and  then  he  will  be  like  his  father.” 

“  I  hope,  my  good  sir,  that  you  are  not  exposed  to  any 
difficulty  on  our  account,”  said  George  anxiously. 

“  Fear  nothing,  George,  for  therefore  are  we  sent  into  the 
world.  If  we  would  not  meet  trouble  for  a  good  cause,  we 
were  not  worthy  of  our  name.” 

“  But.  for  me,”  said  George,  “  I  could  not  bear  it.” 

“  Fear  not,  then,  friend  George-  it  is  not  for  thee,  but  for 
God  and  man  we  do  it,”  said  Simeon.  “And  now  thou 
must  lie  by  quietly  this  dav,  and  to-night,  at  ten  o’clock, 
jphineas  Fletcher  will  carry  thee  onward  to  the  next  stand,-— 


L1FB  AMONG  THE  LOWLY.  148 

thee  and  the  rest  of  thy  company.  The  pursuers  are  hard 
after  thee;  we  must  not  delay.” 

“  If  that  is  the  case/why  wait  till  evening?  ”  said  George, 
“  Thou  art  safe  here  by  daylight,  for  everyone  in  the 
settlement  is  a  Friend,  and  all  are  watching.  It  has  been 
found  safer  to  travel  by  night.” 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

EVANGELINE. 

€t  A  young  star  S  which  shone 
O’er  life, — too  sweet  an  image  for  such  a  glass  l 
A  iovely  being,  scarcely  formed  or  molded  ; 

A  rose  with  all  its  sweetest  leaves  yet  folded.” 

The  Mississippi!  How,  as  by  an  enchanted  wand,  have 
its  scenes  been  changed  since  Chateaubriand  wrote  his  prose- 
poetic  description  of  it,  as  a  river  of  mighty,  unbroken  soli¬ 
tudes,  rolling  amid  undreamed  wonders  of  vegetable  and 
animal  existence. 

But,  as  in  an  hour,  this  river  of  dreams  and  wild  ro¬ 
mance  has  emerged  to  a  reality  scarcely  less  visionary  and 
splendid.  What  other  river  of  the  world  bears  on  its  bosom 
to  the  ocean  the  wealth  and  enterprise  of  such  another 
country?— a  country  whose  products  embrace  all  between 
the  tropics  and  the  poles!  Those  turbid  waters,  hurrying, 
foaming,  tearing  along,  an  apt  resemblance  of  that  head¬ 
long  tide  of  business  which  is  poured  along  its  wave  by  a 
race  more  vehement  and  energetic  than  any  the  world  ever 
saw.  Ah!  would  that  they  did  not  also  bear  along  a  more 
fearful  freight, — the  tears  of  the  oppressed,  the  sighs  of  the 
helpless,  the  bitter  prayers  of  poor,  ignorant  hearts  to  an 
unknown  God,— unknown,  unseen,  and  silent,  but  who  will 
yet  “  come  out  of  his  place  to  save  all  the  poor  of  the 
earth!  ” 

The  slanting  light  of  the  setting  sun  quivers  on  the  sea¬ 
like  expanse  of  the  river;  the  shivery  canes,  and  the  tall, 
dark  cypress,  hung  with  wreaths  of  dark,  funereal  moss, 
glow  in  the  golden  ray,  as  the  heavily  laden  steamboat 
marches  onward. 

Piled  with  cotton-bales  from  many  a  plantation,  up  over 
deck  and  sides,  till  she  seems  in  the  distance  a  square,  mas® 


144 


UNCLE  TOMfS  CABIN;  OB, 

give  block  of  gray,  she  move^jh&avily  onward  to  the  nearing 
mart.  We  must  look  some  time  among  its  crowded  decks 
before  we  shall  find  again  our  humble  friend  Tom.  High 
on  the  upper  deck,  in  a  little  nook  among  the  everywhere 
predominant  cotton-bales,  at  last  we  may  find  him. 

Partly  from  confidence  inspired  by  Mr.  Shelby’s  repre¬ 
sentations,  and  partly  from  the  remarkably  inoffensive  and 
quiet  character  of  the  man,  Tom  had  insensibly  won  his  way 
far  into  the  confidence  of  even  such  a  man  as  Haley. 

At  first  he  had  watched  him  narrowly  through  the  day, 
and  never  allowed  him  to  sleep  at  night  unfettered;  but  the 
uncomplaining  patience  and  apparent  contentment  of  Tom’s 
manner  led  him  gradually  to  discontinue  these  restraints, 
and  for  some  time  Tom  had  enjoyed  a  sort  of  parole  of 
honor,  being  permitted  to  come  and  go  freely  where  he 
pleased  on  the  boat. 

Ever  quiet  and  obliging,  and  more  than  ready  to  lend  a 
hand  in  every  emergency  which  occurred  among  the  work¬ 
men  below,  he  had  won  the  good  opinion  of  all  the  hands, 
and  spent  many  hours  in  helping  them  with  as  hearty  a 
good  will  as  ever  he  worked  on  a  Kentucky  farm. 

When  there  seemed  to  be  nothing  for  him  to  do,  he  would 
climb  to  a  nook  among  the  cotton-bales  of  the  upper  deck, 
and  busy  himself  in  studying  over  his  Bible,— and  it  is  there 
we  see  him  now. 

For  a  hundred  or  more  miles  above  New  Orleans  the  river 
is  higher  than  the  surrounding  country,  and  rolls  its  tre¬ 
mendous  volume  between  massive  levees  twenty  feet  in 
height.  The  traveler  from  the  deck  of  the  steamer,  as  from 
some  floating  castle  top,  overlooks  the  whole  country  for 
miles  and  miles  around.  Tom,  therefore,  had  spread  out 
full  before  him,  in  plantation  after  plantation,  a  map  of  the 
life  to  which  he  was  approaching. 

Pie  saw  the  distant  slaves  at  their  toil;  he  saw  afar  their 
villages  of  huts  gleaming  out  in  long  rows  on  many  a  plan¬ 
tation,  distant  from  the  stately  mansions  and  pleasure- 
grounds  of  the  masters;— and  as  the  moving  picture  passed 
on,  his  poor,  foolish  heart  would  be  turning  backward  to  the 
Kentucky  farm,  with  its  old  shadowy  beeches,- — to  the  mas¬ 
ter’s  house,  with  its  wide,  cool  halls,  and,  near  by,  the  little 
cabin,  overgrown  with  the  multiflora  and  bignonia.  There 
he  seemed  to  see  familiar  faces  of  comrades,  who  had  grown 
up  with  him  from  infancy;  he  saw  his  busy  wife  bustling  in 


lilFE  AMOltfG  THE  LOWLY.  145 

tier  preparations  for  his  eveftifig  meal;  he  heard'  the  merry 
laugh  of  his  boys  at  their  play,  and  the  chirrup  of  the  baby 
at  his  knee;  and  then,  with  a  start  all  faded,  and  he  saw 
again  the  cane  brakes  and  cypresses  and  gliding  plantations, 
and  heard  again  the  creaking  and  groaning  of  the  ma¬ 
chinery,  all  telling  him  too  plainly  that  all  that  phase  of  life 
had  gone  by  forever. 

In  such  a  case,  you  write  to  your  wife,  and  send  messages 
to  your  children;  but  Tom  could  not  write, — the  mail  for 
him  had  no  existence,  and  the  gulf  of  separation  was  un¬ 
bridged  by  even  a  friendly  word  or  signal. 

Is  it  strange,  then,  that  some  tears  fall  on  the  pages  of 
his  Bible,  as  he  lays  it  on  the  cotton-bale,  and,  with  patient 
finger,  threading  his  slow  way  from  word  to  word,  traces  out 
its  promises?  Having  learned  late  in  life,  Tom  was  but  a 
slow  reader,  and  passed  on  laboriously  from  verse  to  verse. 
Fortunate  for  him  was  it  that  the  book  he  was  intent  on 
was  one  which  slow  reading  cannot  injure,— nay,  one  whose 
words,  like  ingots  of  gold,  seem  often  to  need  to  be  weighed 
separately,  that  the  mind  may  take  in  their  priceless  value. 
Let  us  follow  him  a  moment,  as,  pointing  to  each  word,  and 
pronouncing  each  half  aloud,  he  reads: 

“  Let— -not — -your— heart — be — troubled.  In  my— 
Father’s — house — are— many— mansions.  I— go— to  pre¬ 
pare— a— place— for — you.” 

Cicero,  when  he  buried  his  darling  and  only  daughter, 
had  a  heart  as  full  of  honest  grief  as  poor  Tom’s,— perhaps 
no  fuller,  for  both  were  only  men;— but  Cicero  could  pause 
over  no  such  sublime  words  of  hope,  and  look  to  no  such 
future  reunion;  and  if  he  had  seen  them,  ten  to  one  he 
would  not  have  believed, — he  must  fill  his  head  first  with  a 
thousand  questions  of  authenticity  of  manuscript  and  cor¬ 
rectness  of  translation.  But,  to  poor  Tom,  there  it  lay,  just 
what  he  needed,  so  evidently  true  and  divine  that  the  pos¬ 
sibility  of  a  question  never  entered  his  simple  head.  It 
must  be  true;  for,  if  not  true,  how  could  he  live? 

As  for  Tom’s  Bible,  though  it  had  no  annotations  and 
helps  in  margin  from  learned  commentators,  still  it  had  been 
embellished  with  certain  way-marks  and  guide-hoards  of 
Tom’s  own  invention,  which  helped  him  more  than  the 
most  learned  expositions  could  have  done.  It  had  been  his 
custom  to  get  the  Bible  read  to  him  by  his  master’s  chil¬ 
dren,  in  particular  by  young  Master  George;  and  as  they 


146 


UNCLE  tom’s  cabin  ;  o®, 

read,  he  would  designate,  by  bold,  strong  marks  and  dasher, 
with  pen  and  ink,  the  passages  which  more  particularly 
gratified  his  ear  or  affected  his  heart.  His  Bible  was  thui 
marked  through,  from  one  end  to  the  other,  with  a  variety 
of  styles  and  designations;  so  he  could  in  a  moment  seize 
upon  his  favorite  passages,  without  the  labor  of  spelling  out 
what  lay  between  them — and  while  it  lay  there  before  him, 
every  passage  breathing  of  some  old  home  scene,  and  re¬ 
calling  some  past  enjoyment,  his  Bible  seemed  to  him  all  of 
this  life  that  remained,  as  well  as  the  promise  of  a  future 
one. 

Among  the  passengers  on  the  boat  was  a  young  gentleman 
of  fortune  and  family,  resident  in  New  Orleans,  who  bore  the 
name  of  St.  Clare.  He  had  with  him  a  daughter  between 
five  and  six  years  of  age,  together  with  a  lady  who  seemed 
to  claim  relationship  to  both,  and  to  have  the  little  one 
especially  under  her  charge. 

Tom  had  often  caught  glimpses  of  this  little  girl,— for  she 
was  one  of  those  busy,  tripping  creatures  that  can  be  no 
more  contained  in  one  place  than  a  sunbeam  or  a  summer 
breeze, — nor  was  she  one  that,  once  seen,  could  be  easily 
forgotten. 

Her  form  was  the  perfection  of  childish  beauty  without 
its  usual  chubbiness  and  squareness  of  outline.  There  was 
about  it  an  undulating  and  aerial  grace,  such  as  one  might 
dream  of  for  some  mythic  and  allegorical  being.  Her  face 
was  remarkable,  less  for  its  perfect  beauty  of  feature  than 
for  a  singular  and  dreamy  earnestness  of  expression,  which 
made  the  ideal  start  when  they  looked  at  her,  and  by  which 
the  dullest  and  most  literal  were  impressed,  without  exactly 
knowing  why.  The  shape  of  her  head  and  the  turn  of  her 
neck  and  bust  were  peculiarly  noble,  and  the  long  golden- 
brown  hair  that  floated  like  a  cloud  around  it,  the  deep 
spiritual  gravity  of  her  violet  blue  eyes,  shaded  by  heavy 
fringes  of  golden-brown, — all  marked  her  out  from  other 
children,  and  made  everyone  turn  and  look  after  her,  as  she 
glided  hither  and  thither  on  the  boat.  Nevertheless  the 
little  was  not  what  you  would  have  called  either  a  grave 
child  or  a  sad  one.  On  the  contrary,  an  airy  and  innocent 
playfulness  seemed  to  flicker  like  the  shadow  of  summer 
leaves  over  her  childish  face,  and  around  her  buoyant  figure. 
She  was  always  in  motion,  always  with  a  half-smile  on  her 
rosy  m  v  du  flying  hither  and  thither,  with  an  undulating 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY, 


14  f 


md  cloud-like  tread,  singing  to  herself  as  she  moved,  as  in 
a  happy  dream.  Her  father  and  female  guardian  were  in¬ 
cessantly  busy  in  pursuit  of  her, — but,  when  caught,  she 
melted  from  them  again  like  a  summer  cloud;  and,  as  no 
word  of  chiding  or  reproof  ever  fell  on  her  ear  for  whatever 
she  chose  to  do,  she  pursued  her  own  way  all  over  the  boat. 
Always  dressed  in  white,  she  seemed  to  move  like  a  shadow 
through  all  sorts  of  places,  without  contracting  spot  or  stain; 
and  there  was  not  a  corner  or  nook,  above  or  below,  where 
those  fairy  footsteps  had  not  glided,  and  that  visionary 
golden  head,  with  its  deep  blue  eyes,  fleeted  along. 

The  fireman,  as  he  looked  up  from  his  sweaty  toil,  some¬ 
times  found  those  eyes  looking  wonderingly  into  the  raging 
depths  of  the  furnace,  and  fearfully  and  pityingly  at  him,  as 
if  she  thought  him  in  some  dreadful  danger.  Anon  the 
steersman  at  the  wheel  paused  and  smiled,  as  the  picture¬ 
like  head  gleamed  through  the  window  of  the  round-house, 
and  in  a  moment  was  gone  again.  A  thousand  times  a  day 
rough  voices  blessed  her,  and  smiles  of  unwonted  softness 
stole  over  hard  faces  as  she  passed;  and  when  she  tripped 
fearlessly  over  dangerous  places,  rough,  sooty  hands  were 
stretched  involuntarily  out  to  save  her,  and  smooth  her  path. 

Tom,  who  had  the  soft,  impressible  nature  of  his  kindly 
race,  ever  yearning  toward  the  simple  and  childlike,  watched 
the  little  creature  with  daily  increasing  interest.  To  him 
she  seemed  something  almost  divine;  and  whenever  her 
golden  head  and  deep  blue  eyes  peered  out  upon  him  from 
behind  some  dusty  cotton-bale,  or  looked  down  upon  him 
over  some  ridge  of  packages,  he  half  believed  that  he  saw 
one  of  the  angels  stepped  out  of  his  New  Testament. 

Often  and  often  she  walked  mournfully  round  the  place 
where  Haley’s  gang  of  men  and  women  sat  in  their  chains. 
She  would  glide  in  among  them,  and  look  at  them  with  an 
air  of  perplexed  and  sorrowful  earnestness;  and  sometimes 
she  would  lift  their  chains  with  her  slender  hands,  and  then 
sigh  woefully  as  she  glided  away.  Several  times  she  ap¬ 
peared  suddenly  among  them  with  her  hands  full  of  candy, 
nuts,  and  oranges,  which  she  would  distribute  joyfully  to 
them,  and  then  be  gone  again. 

Tom  watched  the  little  lady  a  great  deal,  before  he  ven¬ 
tured  on  any  overtures  toward  acquaintanceship.  He  knew 
an  abundance  of  simple  acts  to  propitiate  and  invite  the  ap¬ 
proaches  of  the  little  people,  and  he  resolved  to  play  his  part 


148 


UNCLE  TOM'S '  CABIN  ;  0B5 

right  skillfully.  He  could  cut  cunning  little  baskets  ont  o! 
cherry-stones,  could  make  grotesque  faces  on  hickory  nnt^ 
or  odd-jumping  figures  out  of  elder-pith,  and  he  was  a  very 
Pan  in  the  manufacture  of  whistles  of  all  sizes  and  sorts. 
His  pockets  were  f  ull  of  miscellaneous  articles  of  attraction, 
which  he  had  hoarded  in  days  of  old  for  his  master’s  chil¬ 
dren,  and  which  he  now  produced,  with  commendable 
prudence  and  economy,  one  by  one,  as  overtures  for  ac¬ 
quaintance  and  friendship. 

The  little  one  was  shy,  for  all  her  busy  interest  in  every¬ 
thing  going  on,  and  it  was  not  easy  to  tame  her.  For  a 
while  she  would  perch  like  a  canary  bird  on  some  box  or 
package  near  Tom,  while  busy  in  the  little  arts  aforenamed, 
and  take  from  him,  with  a  land  of  grave  bashfulness,  the 
little  articles  he  offered.  But  at  last  they  got  on  quite  con¬ 
fidential  terms. 

“ What’s  little  missy’s  name?”  said  Tom,  at  last,  when 
he  thought  matters  were  ripe  to  push  such  an  inquiry. 

“  Evangeline  St.  Clare,”  said  the  little  one,  “  though 
papa  and  everybody  else  call  me  Eva.  Now,  what’s  your 
name?  ” 

“  My  name’s  Tom;  the  little  chil’en  used  to  call  me  Uncle 
Tom,  way  back  thar  in  Kentuck.” 

“  Then  I  mean  to  call  you  Uncle  Tom,  because,  you  see, 
I  like  you,”  said  Eva.  “  So,  Uncle  Tom,  where  are  you 
going?  ” 

“  I  don’t  know.  Miss  Eva.” 

“  Don’t  know?  ”  said  Eva. 

“  No.  I  am  going  to  be  sold  to  somebody.  I  don’t  know 
who.” 

“  My  papa  can  buy  you,”  said  Eva  quickly;  “  and  if  he 
buys  you,  you  will  have  good  times.  I  mean  to  ask  him  to, 
this  very  day.” 

“  Thank  you,  my  little  lady,”  said  Tom. 

The  boat  here  stopped  at  a  small  landing  to  take  in  wood, 
and  Eva,  hearing  her  father’s  voice,  bounded  nimbly  away. 
Tom  rose  up,  and  went  forward  to  offer  his  service  in  wood¬ 
ing,  and  soon  was  busy  among  the  hands. 

Eva  and  her  father  were  standing  together  by  the  railing 
to  see  the  boat  start  from  the  landing-place,  the  wheel  had 
made  two  or  three  revolutions  in  the  water,  when,  by  some 
midden  movement,  the  little  one  suddenly  lost  her  balance,, 
and  fell  sheer  over  the  side  of  the  boat  into  the  water.  HflK 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY. 


1,40 

father,  scarce  knowing  what  he  did,  was  plunging  in  after 
her,  but  was  held  back  by  someone  behind  him,  who  saw 
that  more  efficient  aid  had  followed  his  child. 

Tom  was  standing  just  under  her  on  the  lower  deck  as 
she  fell.  He  saw  her  strike  the  water  and  sink,  and  was 
after  her  in  a  moment.  A  broad-chested,  strong-armed 
fellow,  it  was  nothing  for  him  to  keep  afloat  in  the  water, 
till  in  a  moment  or  two  the  child  rose  to  the  surface,  and  he 
caught  her  in  his  arms  and,  swimming  with  her  to  the  boat- 
side,  handed  her  up,  all  dripping,  to  the  grasp  of  hundreds 
of  hands,  which,  as  if  they  had  all  belonged  to  one  man, 
were  stretched  eagerly  out  to  receive  her.  A  few  moments 
more  and  her  father  bore  her,  dripping  and  senseless,  to  the 
ladies*  cabin,  where,  as  is  usual  in  cases  of  the  kind,  there 
ensued  a  very  well-meaning  and  kind-hearted  strife  among 
the  female  occupants  generally  as  to  who  should  do  the 
most  things  to  make  a  disturbance  and  to  hinder  her  re¬ 
covery  in  every  way  possible. 

It  was  a  sultry,  close  day,  the  next  day,  as  the  steamer 
drew  near  to  New  Orleans.  A  general  bustle  of  expectation 
and  preparation  was  spread  through  the  boat;  in  the  cabin, 
one  and  another  were  gathering  their  things  together,  and 
arranging  them,  preparatory  to  going  ashore.  The  steward 
and  chambermaid,  and  all,  were  busily  engaged  in  cleaning, 
furbishing,  and  arranging  the  splendid  boat,  preparatory  to 
a  grand  entree. 

On  the  lower  deck  sat  our  friend  Tom,  with  his  arms 
folded,  and  anxiously,  from  time  to  time,  turning  his  eyes 
toward  a  group  on  the  other  side  of  the  boat. 

There  stood  the  fair  Evangeline,  a  little  paler  than  the 
day  before,  but  otherwise  exhibiting  no  traces  of  the  acci¬ 
dent  which  had  befallen  her.  A  graceful,  elegantly  formed 
young  man  stood  by  her,  carelessly  leaning  one  elbow  on  a 
bale  of  cotton,  while  a  large  pocketbook  lay  open  before  him. 
It  was  quite  evident,  at  a  glance,  that  the  gentleman  was 
Eva’s  father.  There  was  the  same  noble  cast  of  head,  the 
same  large  blue  eyes,  the  same  golden-brown  hair;  yet  the 
expression  was  wholly  different.  In  the  large,  clear,  blue 
eyes,  though  in  form  and  color  exactly  similar,  there  was 
wanting  that  misty  dreamy  depth  of  expression;  all  was 
clear,  bold,  and  bright,  but  with  a  light  wholly  of  this  world: 
the  beautifully  cut  mouth  had  a  proud  and  somewhat 


150  TOOLE  TOM?8  CABIN;  OB, 

castic  expression,  while  an  air  of  free-and-easy  superiority 
sat  not  ungracefully  in  every  turn  and  movement  of  'nis 
fine  form.  He  was  listening,  with  a  good-humored,  negli¬ 
gent  air,  half-comic,  half-contemptuous,  to  Haley,  who  was 
very  volubly  expatiating  on  the  quality  of  the  article  for 
which  they  were  bargaining. 

“  All  the  moral  and  Christian  virtues  bound  in  black 
morocco  complete!  ”  he  said,  when  Haley  had  finished. 
“  Well,  now,  my  good  fellow,  what’s  the  damage,  as  they  say 
in  Kentucky;  in  short,  what’s  to  be  paid  out  for  this  busi¬ 
ness?  How  much  are  you  going  to  cheat  me,  now?  Out 
with  it!  ” 

“  Wal,”  said  Haley,  “  if  I  should  say  thirteen  hundred 
dollars  for  that  ar  fellow,  I  shouldn’t  but  just  save  myself; 
I  shouldn’t  now,  re’ly.” 

“  Poor  fellow!”  said  the  young  man,  fixing  his  keen, 
mocking  blue  eye  on  him;  “  but  I  suppose  you’d  let  me  have 
him  for  that,  out  of  a  particular  regard  for  me.” 

“  Wal,  the  young  lady  here  seems  to  be  sot  on  him,  and 
nat’lly  enough.” 

“  Oh,  certainly,  there  is  a  call  on  your  benevolence,  my 
friend.  Now  as  a  matter  of  Christian  charity,  how  cheap 
could  you  afford  to  let  him  go,  to  oblige  a  young  lady  that’s 
particular  sot  on  him?” 

“  Wal,  now,  just  think  on’t,”  said  the  trader;  “  just  look 
at  them  limbs,— broad-chested,  strong  as  a  horse.  Look  at 
his  head;  them  high  forrads  allays  shows  calculatin’  niggers, 
that  ’ll  do  any  kind  o’  thing.  I’ve  marked  that  ar.  Now, 
a  nigger  of  that  ar  heft  and  build  is  worth  considerable,  just 
as  you  may  sav,  for  his  body,  supposin’  he’s  stupid;  but 
come  to  put  in  his  calculatin’  faculties,  and  them  which  I 
can  show  he  has  oncommon,  why,  of  course,  it  makes  him 
come  higher.  Why,  that  ar  fellow  managed  his  master’s 
whole  farm.  He  has  a  strornarv  talent  for  business.” 

“  Bad,  bad,  very  bad;  knows  altogether  too  much!  ”  said 
the  young  man,  with  the  same  mocking  smile  playing  about 
his  mouth.  “  Never  will  do,  in  the  world.  Your  smart 
fellows  are  always  running  off.  stealing  horses,  and  raising 
the  devil  generally.  I  think  you  will  have  to  take  off  & 
couple  of  hundred  for  his  smartness.” 

“  Wal,  there  might  be  something  in  that  ar,  if  it  warn’t 
for  his  character;  but  I  can  show  recommends  from  his 
master  and  others,  to  prove  he  is  one  of  your  real  pious,—* 


LIFE  AMONG  TH®  tOVfttc 


151 


the  moot  humble,  praying  pious  crittux  ye  ever  did  see. 
Why,  he's  been  called  a  preacher  in  them  parts  he  came 
from." 

“  And  I  might  use  him  for  a  family  chaplain,  possibly," 
added  the  young  man  dryly.  “  That's  quite  an  idea,  lie- 
ligion  is  a  remarkably  scarce  article  at  our  house." 

“  You're  joking,  now." 

“  How  do  you  know  I  am?  Didn't  you  just  warrant  him 
for  a  preacher?  Has  he  been  examined  by  any  synod  or 
council?  Come,  hand  over  your  papers." 

If  the  trader  had  not  been  sure,  by  a  certain  good- 
humored  twinkle  in  the  large  blue  eye,  that  all  this  banter 
was  sure,  in  the  long  run,  to  turn  out  a  cash  concern,  he 
might  have  been  somewhat  out  of  patience;  as  it  was,  he 
laid  down  a  greasy  pocket-book  on  the  cotton-bales  and  be¬ 
gan  anxiously  studying  over  certain  papers  in  it,  the  young 
man  standing  by,  the  while,  looking  down  on  him  with  an 
air  of  careless,  easy  drollery. 

“Papa,  do  buy  him!  it's  no  matter  what  you  pay,"  whis¬ 
pered  Eva  softly,  getting  up  on  a  package  and  putting  her 
arm  around  her  father's  neck.  “  You  have  money  enough, 
I  know.  I  want  him." 

“Wliat  for,  pussy?  Are  you  going  to  use  him  for  a 
rattle-box,  or  a  rocking-horse,  or  what?  " 

“  I  want  to  make  him  happy." 

“An  original  reason,  certainly." 

Here  the  trader  handed  up  a  certificate,  signed  by  Mr. 
Shelby,  which  the  young  man  took  with  the  tips  of  his  long 
fingers  and  glanced  over  carelessly. 

“  A  gentlemanly  hand,"  he  said,  “  and  vrell  spelt,  too. 
Well,  now,  but  I'm  not  sure,  after  all,  about  this  religion," 
said  he,  the  old  wucked  expression  returning  to  his  eye; 
“the  country  is  almost  ruined  with  pious  white  people:  such 
pious  politicians  as  we  have  just  before  elections, — -such 
pious  goings-on  in  all  departments  of  church  and  state,  that 
a  fellow  does  not  know  who'll  cheat  him  next.  I  don't 
know,  either,  about  religion's  being  up  in  the  market,  just 
now.  I  have  not  looked  in  the  papers  lately,  to  see  how  it 
sells.  How  many  hundred  dollars,  now,  do  you  put  on  for 
thk  religion  ?  " 

“You  like  to  be  a-jokin',  now,"  said  the  trader;  “but, 
then,  there's  sense  under  all  that  ar.  I  know  there's  differ¬ 
ences  in  religion.  Some  kindB  is  mis'rable:  there's  your 


>02  UNCLE;  TOM’S  CABIN;  OB, 

ineetin’  pious;  there’s  your  singing  roarin’  pious;  them 
an’t  no  account,  in  black  or  white;— but  these  rally  is;  and 
I’ve  seen  it  in  niggers  as  often  as  any,  your  rail  softy,  quiet, 
stiddy,  honest  pious,  that  the  hull  world  couldn’t  tempt  ’em 
to  do  nothing  that  they  thinks  is  wrong;  and  ye  see  in  this 
letter  what  Tours  old  master  says  about  him.” 

“  Now,”  said  the  young  man,  stooping  gravely  over  Ms 
book  of  bills,  “  if  you  can  assure  me  that  I  really  can  buy 
this  kind  of  pious,  and  that  it  will  be  set  down  to  my  account 
in  the  book  up  above,  as  something  belonging  to  me,  I 
wouldn’t  care  if  I  did  go  a  little  extra  for  it.  How  d’ye 
say?  ” 

“  Wal,  rally,  I  can’t  do  that,”  said  the  trader.  “  I’m 
a-tliinkin’  that  every  man  ’ll  have  to  hang  on  his  own  hook 
in  them  ar  quarters.” 

“  Rather  hard  on  a  fellow  that  pays  extra  on  religion,  and 
can’t  trade  with  it  in  the  state  where  he  wants  it  most,  an’t 
it,  now?  ”  said  the  young  man,  who  had  been  making  out  a 
roll  of  bills  while  he  was  speaking.  “  There,  count  your 
money,  old  boy!  ”  he  added,  as  he  handed  the  roll  to  the 
trader. 

“All  right,”  said  Haley,  his  face  beaming  with  delight; 
and  pulling  out  an  old  inkhorn,  he  proceeded  to  fill  out  a  bill 
of  sale,  which,  in  a  few  moments,  he  handed  to  the  young 
man. 

“  I  wonder,  now,  if  I  was  divided  up  and  inventoried,”  said 
the  latter,  as  he  ran  over  the  paper,  “  how  much  I  might 
bring.  Say  so  much  for  the  shape  of  my  head,  so  much 
for  a  high  forehead,  so  much  for  arms,  and  hands,  and  legs, 
and  then  so  much  for  education,  learning,  talent,  honesty, 
religion!  Bless  me!  there  would  be  small  charge  on  that 
last,  I’m  thinking.  But  come,  Eva,”  he  said;  and  taking 
the  hand  of  his  daughter,  he  stepped  across  the  boat  and, 
carelessly  putting  the  tip  of  his  finger  under  Tom’s  chin* 
said  good-humoredly,  “  Look  up,  Tom,  and  see  how  you  like 
your  new  master.” 

Tom  looked  up.  It  was  not  in  nature  to  look  into  that 
gay,  young,  handsome  face  without  a  feeling  of  pleasure; 
and  Tom  felt  the  tears  start  in  his  eyes  as  he  said  heartily, 
“  God  bless  you,  mas’r!  ” 

“Well,  I  hope  he  will.  What’s  your  name?  Tom? 
Quite  as  likely  to  do  it  for  your  asking  as  mine,  from  ail  ao- 
counts.  Can  you  drive  horses,  Tom?  ” 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY, 


nn 

“  Pve  been  allays  used  to  horses/’  said  Tom.  “  Mas’r 
Shelby  raised  heaps  on  W' w  - 

“  Well,  I  think  I  shall  put  you  in  coaehy,  on  condition 
that  you  won’t  be  drunk  more  than  once  a  week,  unless  in 
cases  of  emergency,  Tcm.” 

Tom  looked  surprised  and  rather  hurt,  and  said,  “  I  never 
drink,  mas’r.” 

“  I’ve  heard  that  story  before,  Tom;  but  then  we’ll  see. 
It  will  be  a  special  accommodation  to  all  concerned  if  you 
don’t.  Never  mind,  my  boy,”  he  added  good-humoredly, 
seeing  Tom  still  looked  grave;  “  I  don’t  doubt  you  mean  to 
do  well.” 

“  I  sartin  do,  mas’r,”  said  Tom. 

“And  you  shall  have  good  times,”  said  Eva.  “Papa  is 
very  good  to  everybody,  only  he  always  will  laugh  at  them.” 

“  Papa  is  much  obliged  to  you  for  this  recommendation,” 
said  St.  Clare,  laughing,  as  he  turned  on  his  heel  and  walked 
away. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

OF  tom’s  new  master  and  various  other  matters. 

Since  the  thread  of  our  humble  hero’s  life  has  now  be* 
come  interwoven  with  that  of  higher  ones,  it  is  necessary  to 
give  some  brief  introduction  to  them. 

Augustine  St.  Clare  was  the  son  of  a  wealthy  planter  of 
Louisiana.  The  family  had  its  origin  in  Canada.  Of  two 
brothers,  very  similar  in  temperament  and  character,  one 
had  settled  on  a  flourishing  farm  in  Vermont,  and  the  other 
became  an  opulent  planter  in  Louisiana.  The  mother  of 
Augustine  was  a  Huguenot  French  lady,  whose  family  had 
emigrated  to  Louisiana  during  the  days  of  its  early  settle¬ 
ment.  Augustine  and  another  brother  were  the  only  chil¬ 
dren  of  their  parents.  Having  inherited  from  his  mother 
an  exceeding  delicacy  of  constitution,  he  was,  at  the  instance 
of  physicians*,  during  many  years  of  his  boyhood,  sent  to  the 
care  of  his  uncle  in  Vermont,  in  order  that  his  constitution 
might  be  strengthened  by  the  cold  of  a  more  bracing  climate. 

In  childhood  he  was  remarkable  for  an  extreme  and 
marked  sensitiveness  of  character,  more  akin  to  the  softness 
of  woman  than  the  ordinary  hardness  of  his  own  sex.  Time* 


154  UN-cjLfi  tom’s  cabih;  oe} 

however,  overgrew  this  softness  with  the  rough  bark  of  maa* 
hood,  and  but  few  knew  how  living  and  fresh  it  still  lay  at 
the  core.  His  talents  were  of  the  very  first  order,  although 
his  mind  showed  a  preference  always  for  the  ideal  and  the 
aesthetic,  and  there  was  about  him  that  repugnance  to  the 
actual  business  of  life  which  is  the  common  result  of  this 
balance  of  the  faculties.  Soon  after  the  completion  of  his 
college  course  his  whole  nature  was  kindled  into  one  intense 
and  passionate  effervescence  of  romantic  passion.  His  hour 
came, — the  hour  that  comes  only  once;  his  star  rose  in  the 
horizon, — -that  star  that  rises  so  often  in  vain,  to  be  re¬ 
membered  on]y  as  a  thing  of  dreams;  and  it  rose  for  him  in 
vain.  To  drop  the  figure,— he  saw  and  won  the  love  of  a 
high-minded  and  beautiful  woman,  in  one  of  the  Northern 
States,  and  they  were  affianced.  He  returned  South  to 
make  arrangements  for  their  marriage,  when,  most  unex¬ 
pectedly,  his  letters  weie  returned  to  him  by  mail,  with  a 
short  note  from  her  guardian  stating  to  him  that  ere  this 
reached  him  the  lady  would  be  the  wife  of  another.  Stung 
to  madness,  he  vainly  hoped,  as  many  another  has  done,  to 
fling  the  whole  thing  from  his  heart  by  one  desperate  effort. 
Too  proud  to  supplicate  or  seek  explanation,  he  threw  him¬ 
self  at  once  into  a  whirl  of  fashionable  society,  and  in  a  fort¬ 
night  from  the  time  of  the  fatal  letter  was  the  accepted  lover 
of  the  reigning  belle  of  the  season;  and  as  soon  as  arrange¬ 
ments  could  be  made  he  became  the  husband  of  a  fine  figure, 
a  pair  of  bright,  dark  eyes,  and  a  hundred  thousand  dollars; 
and,  of  course,  everybody  thought  him  a  happy  fellow. 

The  married  couple  were  enjoying  their  honeymoon,  and 
entertaining  a  brilliant  circle  of  friends  in  their  splendid 
villa  near  Lake  Pontchartrain,  when  one  day  a  letter  was 
brought  to  him  in  that  well-remembered  writing.  It  was 
handed  to  him  while  he  was  in  full  tide  of  gay  and  successful 
conversation  in  a  -whole  roomful  of  company.  He  turned 
deadly  pale  -when  he  saw  the  writing,  but  still  preserved  his 
composure  and  finished  the  playful  warfare  of  badinage 
which  he  was  at  the  moment  carrying  on  with  a  lady  oppo¬ 
site;  and,  a  short  time  after,  was  missed  from  the  circle.  In 
his  room,  alone,  he  opened  and  read  the  letter,  now  worse 
than  idle  and  useless  to  be  read.  It  was  from  her,  giving  a 
long  account  of  the  persecution  to  which  she  had  been  ex¬ 
posed  by  her  guardian’s  family,  to  lead  her  to  unite  herself 
with  their  son;  and  she  related  how,  for  a  long  time,  hia 


*  MFE  AMONG  THE  LOWI/T,  Utt 

letters  had  ceased  to  arrive;  how  she  had  written  time  and 
again,  till  she  became  weary  and  doubtful;  how  her  health 
had  failed  under  her  anxieties,  and  how,  at  last,  she  had  dis¬ 
covered  the  whole  fraud  which  had  been  practiced  on  them 
both.  The  letter  ended  with  expressions  of  hope  and  thank¬ 
fulness,  and  professions  of  undying  affection,  which  were 
more  bitter  than  death  to  the  unhappy  young  man.  He 
wrote  to  her  immediately: 

“I  have  received  yours, — but  too  late.  I  believed  all  I  heard.  I  was 
desperate.  I  am  married,  aud  all  is  over.  Only  forget, — it  is  all  that 
remains  for  either  of  us.’' 

And  thus  ended  the  whole  romance  and  ideal  of  life  for 
Augustine  St.  Clare.  But  the  real  remained, — the  real , 
like  the  flat,  bare,  oozy  tide-mud,  when  the  blue,  sparkling 
wave,  with  all  its  company  of  gliding  boats  and  white- 
winged  ships,  its  music  of  oars  and  chiming  waters,  has  gone 
down,  and  there  it  lies,  flat,  slimy,  bare,— exceedingly  real 

Of  course,  in  a  novel,  people’s  hearts  break  and  they  die, 
and  that  is  the  end  of  it;  and  in  a  story  this  is  very  con¬ 
venient.  But  in  real  life  we  do  not  die  when  all  that  makes 
life  bright  dies  to  us.  There  is  a  most  busy  and  important 
round  of  eating,  drinking,  dressing,  walking,  visiting,  buy¬ 
ing,  selling,  talking,  reading,  and  all  that  makes  up  what  is 
commonly  called  living ,  yet  to  be  gone  through;  and  this  yet 
remained  to  Augustine.  Had  his  wife  been  a  whole  woman 
she  might  yet  have  done  something — as  woman  can— to 
mend  the  broken  threads  of  life,  and  weave  them  again  into 
a  tissue  of  brightness.  But  Marie  St.  Clare  could  not  even 
see  that  they  had  been  broken.  As  before  stated,  she  con¬ 
sisted  of  a  fine  figure,  a  pair  of  splendid  eyes,  and  a  hundred 
thousand  dollars;  and  none  of  these  items  were  precisely  the 
ones  to  minister  to  a  mind  diseased. 

When  Augustine,  pale  as  death,  was  found  lying  on  the 
sofa,  and  pleaded  sudden  sick-headache  as  the  cause  of  his 
distress,  she  recommended  to  him  to  smell  of  hartshorn; 
and  when  the  paleness  and  headache  came  on  week  after 
week  she  only  said  that  she  never  thought  Mr.  St.  Clare 
was  sickly;  but  it  seems  he  was  very  liable  to  sick-headaches, 
and  that  it  was  a  very  unfortunate  thing  for  her,  because  he 
didn’t  enjoy  going  into  company  with  her,  and  it  seemed  odd! 
to  go  so  much  alone,  when  they  were  just  married.  Augus¬ 
tine  was  glad  in  his  heart  that  he  had  married  uhdiscern^ 


IM  TOOLS  TOM?S  cabin;  6m, 

mg  a  woman;  but  as  the  glosses  and  civilities  of  the  honey¬ 
moon  wore  away,  he  discovered  that  a  beautiful  young 
woman,  who  has  lived  all  her  life  to  be  caressed  and  waited 
on,  might  prove  quite  a  hard  mistress  in  domestic  life. 
Marie  never  had  possessed  much  capability  of  affection,  or 
much  sensibility,  and  the  little  that  she  had  had  been 
merged  into  a  most  intense  and  unconscious  selfishness 
— -a  selfishness  the  more  hopeless  from  its  quiet  obtuse¬ 
ness,  its  utter  ignorance  of  any  claims  but  her  own. 
From  her  infancy  she  had  been  surrounded  with  servants, 
who  lived  only  to  study  her  caprices;  the  idea  that  they 
had  either  feelings  or  rights  had  never  dawned  upon 
her,  even  in  distant  perspective.  Her  father,  whose  only 
child  she  had  been,  had  never  denied  her  anything  that 
lay  within  the  compass  of  human  possibility;  and  when 
she  entered  life,  beautiful,  accomplished,  and  an  heiress, 
she  had,  of  course,  all  the  eligibles  and  non-eligibles  of 
the  other  sex  sighing  at  her  feet,  and  she  had  no  doubt 
that  Augustine  was  a  most  fortunate  man  in  having 
obtained  her.  It  is  a  great  mistake  to  suppose  that  a  woman 
with  no  heart  will  be  an  easy  creditor  in  the  exchange  of 
affection.  There  is  not  on  earth  a  more  merciless  exacter 
of  love  from  others  than  a  thoroughly  selfish  woman;  and 
the  more  unlovely  she  grows  the  more  jealously  and  scrupu¬ 
lously  she  exacts  love,  to  the  utmost  farthing.  When, 
therefore,  St.  Clare  began  to  drop  off  those  gallantries  and 
small  attentions  which  flowed  at  first  through  the  habitude 
of  courtship,  he  found  his  sultana  no  way  ready  to  resign  her 
slave;  there  were  abundance  of  tears,  poutings,  and  small 
tempests;  there  were  discontents,  pinings,  upbraidings.  St. 
Clare  was  good-natured  and  self-indulgent,  and  sought  to 
buy  off  with  presents  and  flatteries;  and  when  Marie  became 
mother  to  a  beautiful  daughter  he  really  felt  awakened  for  a 
time  to  something  like  tenderness. 

St.  Clare’s  mother  . had  been  a  woman  of  uncommon  eleva¬ 
tion  and  purity  of  character,  and  he  gave  to  this  child  his 
mother’s  name,  fondly  fancying  that  she  would  prove  a  re¬ 
production  of  her  image.  The  thing  had  been  remarked 
with  petulant  jealousy  by  his  wife,  and  she  regarded  her 
husband’s  absorbing  devotion  to  the  child  with  suspicion  and 
dislike;  all  that  was  given  to  her  seemed  so  much  taken  from 
herself.  From  the  time  of  the  birth  of  this  child  bar. health 
gradually  sunk.  A  life  of  constant  inaction,  b  et  ;  and 


IUFB.  iUIOM  THIS  LOWLY*  157 

mental, — the  friction  of  ceaseless  ennui  and  discontent, 
united  to  the  ordinary  weakness  which  attended  the  period 
of  maternity,— in  course  of  a  few  years  changed  the  bloom¬ 
ing  belle  into  a  yellow,  faded,  sickly  woman,  whose  time  was 
divided  among  a  variety  of  fanciful  diseases,  and  who  con¬ 
sidered  herself,  in  every  sense,  the  most  ill-used  and  suffer¬ 
ing  person  in  existence. 

There  was  no  end  of  her  various  complaints;  but  her  prin¬ 
cipal  forte  appeared  to  lie  in  siek-headache,  which  sometimes 
would  confine  her  to  her  room  three  days  out  of  six.  As,  of 
course,  all  family  arrangements  fell  into  the  hands  of  serv¬ 
ants,  St.  Clare  found  his  menage  anything  but  comfortable. 
His  only  daughter  was  exceedingly  delicate,  and  he  feared 
that,  with  no  one  to  look  after  her  and  attend  to  her,  her 
health  and  life  might  yet  fall  a  sacrifice  to  her  mother’s  in¬ 
efficiency.  He  had  taken  her  with  him  on  a  tour  to  Ver¬ 
mont,  and  had  persuaded  his  cousin.  Miss  Ophelia  St.  Clare, 
to  return  with  him  to  his  Southern  residence;  and  they  are 
now  returning  on  this  boat,  where  we  have  introduced  them 
to  our  readers. 

And  now,  while  the  distant  domes  and  spires  of  Hew 
Orleans  rise  to  our  view,  there  is  yet  time  for  an  introduc¬ 
tion  to  Miss  Ophelia. 

Whoever  has  traveled  in  the  Hew  England  States  will  re¬ 
member,  in  some  cool  village,  the  large  farmhouse,  with  its 
clean-swept  grassy  yard,  shaded  by  the  dense  and  massive 
foliage  of  the  sugar-maple;  and  remember  the  air  of  order 
and  stillness,  of  perpetuity  and  unchanging  repose  that 
seemed  to  breathe  over  the  whole  place.  Ho  thing  lost,  or 
out  of  order;  not  a  picket  loose  in  the  fence,  not  a  particle  of 
litter  in  the  turfy  yard,  with  its  clumps  of  lilac-bushes  grow¬ 
ing  up  under  the  windows.  Within,  he  will  remember  wide, 
clean  rooms,  where  nothing  ever  seems  to  be  doing  or  going 
to  be  done,  where  everything  is  once  and  forever  rigidly  in 
place,  and  where  all  household  arrangements  move  with  the 
punctual  exactness  of  the  old  clock  in  the  corner.  In  the 
family  “  keeping-room,"  as  it  is  termed,  he  will  remember 
the  staid,  respectable  old  bookcase,  with  its  glass  doors, 
where  “  Rollings  History,"  Milton’s  “  Paradise  Lost,"  Ban¬ 
yan’s  “  Pilgrim’s  Progress,"  and  Scott’s  Family  Bible  stazfd 
side  by  side  in  decorous  order,  with  multitudes  of  other 
books  equally  solemn  and  respectable.  There  are  no  serv¬ 
ants  in  the  house,  but  the  lady  in  the  snowy  cap,  with  the 


im  UNCLE  tom’s  cabin;  OBf 

spectacles,  who  sits  sewing  every  afternoon  among  her 
daughters,  as  if  nothing  ever  had  been  done,  or  were  to  be 
done,— she  and  her  girls,  in  some  long-forgotten  fore  part 
of  the  day,  “  did  up  the  work  ,”  and  for  the  rest  of  the  time, 
probably,  at  all  hours  when  you  would  see  them,  it  is  “  done 
up”  The  old  kitchen  floor  never  seems  stained  or  spotted: 
the  tables,  the  chairs,  and  the  various  cooking  utensils  never 
seem  deranged  or  disordered;  though  three  and  sometimes 
four  meals  a  day  are  got  there,  though  the  family  washing 
and  ironing  are  there  performed,  and  though  pounds  of  but¬ 
ter  and  cheese  are  in  some  silent  and  mysterious  manner 
there  brought  into  existence. 

On  such  a  farm,  in  such  a  house  and  family,  Miss  Ophelia 
had  spent  a  quiet  existence  of  some  forty-five  years,  when 
her  cousin  invited  her  to  visit  his  Southern  mansion.  The 
eldest  of  a  large  family,  she  was  still  considered  by  her 
father  and  mother  as  one  of  “  the  children,”  and  the  pro¬ 
posal  that  she  should  go  to  Orleans  was  a  most  momentous 
one  to  the  family  circle.  The  old,  gray-headed  father  took 
down  Morse’s  Atlas  out  of  the  bookcase  and  looked  out  the 
exact  latitude  and  longitude:  and  read  Flint’s  “  Travels  in 
the  South  and  West,”  to  make  up  his  own  mind  as  to  the 
nature  of  the  country. 

The  good  mother  inquired  anxiously,  “  if  Orleans  wasn’t 
an  awful  wicked  place,”  saying,  “  that  it  seemed  to  her  most 
equal  to  going  to  the  Sandwich  Islands,  or  anywhere  among 
the  heathen.” 

It  was  known  at  the  minister’s,  and  at  the  doctor’s,  and  at 
Miss  Peabody’s  milliner  shop,  that  Ophelia  St.  Clare  was 
u  talking  about”  going  away  down  to  Orleans  with  her 
cousin,  and  of  course  the  whole  village  could  do  no  less  than 
help  this  very  important  process  of  talking  about  the  matter. 
The  minister,  who  inclined  strongly  to  abolitionist  views, 
was  quite  doubtful  whether  such  a  step  might  not  tend 
somewhat  to  encourage  the  Southerners  in  holding  on  to 
their  slaves;  while  the  doctor,  who  was  a  stanch  coloniza- 
tionist,  inclined  to  the  opinion  that  Miss  Ophelia  ought  to 
go,  to  show  the  Orleans  people  that  we  don’t  think  hardly  of 
them,  after  all.  He  was  of  opinion,  in  fact,  that  Southern 
people  needed  encouraging.  When,  however,  the  fact  that 
she  had  resolved  to  go  was  fully  before  the  public  mind,  she 
was  solemnly  invited  out  to  tea  by  all  her  friends  and  neigh¬ 
bors  for  the  space  of  a  fortnight,  and  her  prospects  and  plans 


RIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY.  l&f 

(duly  canvassed  and  inquired  into.  Miss  Moseley,  wlio  eam$ 
into  the  house  to  help  do  the  dressmaking,  acquired  daily, 
accessions  of  importance  from  the  developments  with  regard 
to  Miss  Ophelia’s  wardrobe  which  she  had  been  enabled  to 
make.  It  was  credibly  ascertained  that  Squire  Sinclare,  as 
his  name  was  commonly  contracted  in  the  neighborhood, 
had  counted  out  fifty  dollars  and  given  them  to  Miss  Ophelia 
and  told  her  to  buy  any  clothes  she  thought  best;  and  that 
two  new  silk  dresses  and  a  bonnet  had  been  sent  for  from 
Boston.  As  to  the  propriety  of  this  extraordinary  outlay 
the  public  mind  was  divided,— some  affirming  that  it  was 
well  enough,  all  things  considered,  for  once  in  one’s  life,  and 
others  stoutly  affirming  that  the  money  had  better  have 
been  sent  to  the  missionaries;  but  all  parties  agreed  that 
there  had  been  no  such  parasol  seen  in  those  parts  as  had 
been  sent  on  from  New  York,  and  that  she  had  one  silk  dress 
that  might  fairly  be  trusted  to  stand  alone,  whatever  might; 
be  said  of  its  mistress.  There  were  credible  rumors,  also, 
of  a  hemstitched  pocket  handkerchief;  and  report  even  went 
so  far  as  to  state  that  Miss  Ophelia  had  one  pocket  handker¬ 
chief  with  lace  all  around  it, — it  was  even  added  that  it  was 
worked  in  the  corners;  but  this  latter  point  was  never  satis¬ 
factorily  ascertained,  and  remains,  in  fact,  unsettled  to  this 
day. 

Miss  Ophelia,  as  you  now  behold  her,  stands  before  you  in 
a  very  shining  brown  linen  traveling-dress,  tall,  square- 
formed,  and  angular.  Her  face  was  thin  and  rather  sharp 
in  its  outlines;  the  lips  compressed,  like  those  of  a  person 
who  is  in  the  habit  of  making  up  her  mind  definitely  on  all 
subjects;  while  the  keen,  dark  eyes  had  a  peculiarly  search¬ 
ing,  advised  movement,  and  traveled  over  everything,  as  if 
they  were  looking  for  something  to  take  care  of. 

All  her  movements  were  sharp,  decided,  and  energetic; 
and,  though  she  was  never  much  of  a  talker,  her  words  were 
remarkably  direct  and  to  the  purpose  when  she  did  speak. 

In  her  habits  she  was  a  living  impersonation  of  order, 
method,  and  exactness.  In  punctuality  she  was  as  inevitable 
as  a  clock  and  as  inexorable  as  a  railroad  engine;  and  she 
held  in  most  decided  contempt  and  abomination  anything  of 
a  contrary  character. 

The  great  sin  of  sins,  in  her  eyes,— the  sum  of  all  evils,— 
was  expressed  by  one  very  common  and  important  word  m 

her  vocabulary* — “  shiftlessness.”  Her  finale  and  ulti- 


166  uncle  tom’s  cabih;  ob* 

m&tuxn  of  contempt  consisted  in  a  very  emphatic  pronuncia¬ 
tion  of  the  woid  “  shiftless  and  by  this  she  characterized 
all  inodes  of  procedure  which  had  not  a  direct  and  inevitable 
relation  to  accomplishment  of  some  purpose  then  definitely 
had  in  mind.  Peopio  who  did  nothing,  or  who  did  not  know 
exactly  what  they  were  going  to  do,  or  who  did  not  take  the 
most  direct  way  to  accomplish  what  they  set  their  hands  to, 
were  objects  of  her  entire  contempt, — a  contempt  shown 
less  frequently  by  anything  she  said,  than  by  a  kind  of  stony 
grimness,  as  if  she  scorned  to  say  anything  about  the  matter. 

As  to  mental  cultivation, — she  had  a  clear,  strong,  active 
mind,  was  well  and  thoroughly  read  in  history  and  the  older 
English  classics,  and  thought  with  great  strength  within 
certain  narrow  limits.  Her  theological  tenets  were  all 
made  up,  labeled  in  most  positive  and  distinct  forms,  and 
put  by,  like  the  bundles  in  her  patch-trunk;  there  were  just 
so  many  of  them,  and  there  were  never  to  be  any  more.  So, 
also,  were  her  ideas  with  regard  to  most  matters  of  practical 
life,— such  as  housekeeping  in  all  its  branches,  and  the 
various  political  relations  of  her  native  village.  And, 
underlying  all  deeper  than  anything  else,  higher  and 
broader,  lay  the  strongest  principle  of  her  being- — conscien¬ 
tiousness.  Nowhere  is  conscience  so  dominant  and  all- 
absorbing  as  with  New  England  women.  It  is  the  granite 
formation  which  lies  deepest  and  rises  out  even  to  the  tops 
of  the  highest  mountains. 

Miss  Ophelia  was  the  absolute  bond-slave  of  the  “  ought” 
Once  make  her  certain  that  the  “  path  of  duty,”  as  she  com¬ 
monly  phrased  it,  lay  in  any  given  direction,  and  fire  and 
water  could  not  keep  her  from  it.  She  would  walk  straight 
down  into  a  well,  or  up  to  a  loaded  cannon’s  mouth,  if  she 
.were  only  quite  sure  that  there  the  path  lay.  Her  standard 
of  right  was  so  high,  so  all-embracing,  so  minute,  and  mak¬ 
ing  so  few  concessions  to  human  frailty  that,  though  she 
strove  with  heroic  ardor  to  reach  it,  she  never  actually  did 
so,  and  of  course  was  burdened  with  a  constant  and  often 
harassing  sense  of  deficiency;— this  gave  a  severe  and  some¬ 
what  gloomy  cast  to  her  religious  character. 

But  how  in  the  world  can  Miss  Ophelia  get  along  with 
Augustine  St.  Clare,— gay,  easy,  unpunctual,  impractical, 
skeptical, — in  short,  walking  with  impudent  and  nonchalant 
freedom  over,  eve&y  one  of  her  most  cherished  habits  and 
opinions? 


XJFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY.  161 

To  tell  the  truth,  then.  Miss  Ophelia  loved  him.  When  a 
boy,  it  had  been  hers  to  teach  him  his  catechism,  mend  his 
clothes,  comb  his  hair,  and  bring  him  up  generally  in  the 
way  he  should  go;  and  her  heart  having  a  warm  side  to  it, 
Augustine  had,  as  he  usually  did  with  most  people,  monopo¬ 
lized  a  large  share  of  it  for  himself,  and  therefore  it  was  that 
he  succeeded  very  easily  in  persuading  her  that  the  “  path 
of  duty  ”  lay  in  the  direction  of  New  Orleans,  and  that  she 
must  go  with  him  to  take  care  of  Eva,  and  keep  everything 
from  going  to  wreck  and  ruin  during  the  frequent  illnesses 
of  his  wife.  The  idea  of  a  house  without  anybody  to  take 
care  of  it  went  to  her  heart;  then  she  loved  the  lovely  little 
girl,  as  few  could  help  doing:  and  though  she  regarded  Au¬ 
gustine  as  very  much  of  a  heathen,  yet  she  loved  him, 
laughed  at  his  jokes,  and  forbore  with  his  failings,  to  an  ex¬ 
tent  which  those  who  knew  him  thought  perfectly  incredible. 
But  what  more  or  other  is  to  be  known  of  Miss  Ophelia  our 
reader  must  discover  by  a  personal  acquaintance. 

There  she  is,  sitting  now  in  her  stateroom,  surrounded  by 
a  mixed  multitude  of  little  and  big  carpet-bags,  boxes, 
baskets,  each  containing  some  separate  responsibility  which 
she  is  tying,  binding  up,  packing,  or  fastening  with  a  face  of 
great  earnestness. 

“Now,  Eva,  have  you  kept  count  of  your  things?  Of 
course  you  haven't,- — children  never  do:  there’s  the  spotted 
carpet  hag  and  the  little  blue  bandbox  with  your  best  bon¬ 
net, — that’s  two;  then  the  India  rubber  satchel  is  three;  and 
my  tape  and  needle  box  is  four;  and  my  bandbox,  five;  and 
my  collar-box,  six;  and  that  little  hair  trunk,  seven.  What 
have  yon  done  with  your  sunshade?  Give  it  to  me,  and 
let  me  put  a  paper  round  it,  and  tie  it  to  my  umbrella  with 
my  shade; — there,  now.” 

“Why,  aunty,  we  are  only  going  up  home;— what  is  the 
use?” 

“To  keep  it  nice,  child;  people  must  take  care  of  their 
things,  if  they  ever  mean  to  have  anything;  and  now,  Eva, 
is  your  thimble  put  up?  ” 

“  Beally,  aunty,  I  don’t  know.” 

“Well,  never  mind;  I’ll  look  your  box  over,— thimble, 
wax,  two  spools,  scissors,  knife,  tape-needle;  all  right,— put 
it  in  here.  What  did  you  ever  do,  child,  when  you  were 
coming  on  with  only  your  papa?  I  should  have  thought 
gou’d  ’a’  lost  everything  you  had/’ 


im 


UKOLE  tom’s  cabim  ;  OB, 

“  Well*  aunty*  I  did  lose  a  great  many;  and  then*  when  w® 
stopped  anywhere*  papa  would  buy  some  more  of  whatever  it 
«ras” 

Mercy  on  us*  child*— what  a  way!  ” 

“  It  was  a  very  easy  way*  aunty*”  said  Eva. 

“  It’s  a  dreadful  shiftless  one*”  said  aunty. 

“  Why,  aunty*  what  *11  you  do  now?”  said  Eva;  “that 
Inink  is  too  full  to  be  shut  down.” 

“  It  must  shut  down,”  said  aunty*  with  the  air  of  a  general, 
as  she  squeezed  the  things  in  and  sprang  upon  the  lid;— 
still  a  little  gap  remained  about  the  mouth  of  the  trunk. 

“  Get  up  here*  Eva!  ”  said  Miss  Ophelia  courageously; 
4*what  has  been  done  can  be  done  again.  This  trunk  has 
got  to  be  shut  and  locked*— there  are  no  two  ways  about  it.” 

And  the  trunk*  intimidated*  doubtless*  by  this  resolute 
statement*  gave  in.  The  hasp  snapped  sharply  in  its  hole, 
and  Miss  Ophelia  turned  the  key  and  pocketed  it  in  triumph, 

“  Now,  we’re  ready.  Where’s  your  papa?  I  think  it  time 
this  baggage  was  set  out.  Do  look  out,  Eva*  and  see  if  you 
jgee  your  papa.” 

“  Oh*  yes*  he’s  down  the  end  of  the  gentlemen’s  cabin*  eat¬ 
ing  an  orange.” 

“  He  can’t  know  how  near  we  are  coming*”  said  aunty; 
€<  hadn’t  you  better  run%nd  speak  to  him?  ” 

“  Papa  never  is  in  a  hurry  about  anything*”  said  Eva, 
u  and  we  haven’t  come  to  the  landing.  Do  step  on  the 
guards,  aunty.  Look!  there’s  our  house*  up  that  street!  ” 

The  boat  now  began*  with  heavy  groans*  like  some  vast, 
tired  monster*  to  prepare  to  push  up  among  the  multiplied 
steamers  at  the  levee.  Eva  joyously  pointed  out  the  vari¬ 
ous  spires*  domes*  and  waymarks  by  which  she  recognized 
her  native  city. 

“Yes*  yes*  dear;  very  fine*”  said  Miss  Ophelia.  “But 
mercy  on  us!  the  boat  has  stopped!  Where  is  your  father?  ” 

And  now  ensued  the  usual  turmoil  of  landing* — waiters 
running  twenty  ways  at  once* — men  tugging  trunks*  carpet¬ 
bags*  boxes*— women  anxiously  calling  to  their  children,  and 
everybody  crowding  in  a  dense  mass  to  the  plank  toward  the 
landing. 

Miss  Ophelia  seated  herself  resolutely  on  the  lately  van¬ 
quished  trunk,  and  marshaling  all  her  goods  and  chattels  in 
fine  riUi^v  order*  seemed  resolved  to  defend  them-  to  the 
lest* 


US'S  AMONG  THIS  LOWLY, 


i 

w  Shall  I  take  your  trunk,  ma’am?  ”  “  Shall  I  take  your 

baggage?”  “Let  me  ’tend  to  your  baggage,  missis?” 
“Shan’t  I  carry  out  these  yer,  missis?”  rained  down  upon  her 
unheeded.  She  sat  with  grim  determination,  upright  as  a 
darning-needle  stuck  in  a  board,  holding  on  to  her  bundle 
of  umbrella  and  parasols,  and  replying  with  a  determination 
that  wras  enough  to  strike  dismay  even  into  a  hackman, 
wondering  to  Eva,  in  each  interval,  “what  upon  earth  her 
papa  could  be  thinking  of;  he  couldn’t  have  fallen  over,  now, 
— but  something  must  have  happened;” — and  just  as  she  had 
begun  to  work  herself  into  a  real  distress,  he  came  up,  with 
his  usually  careless  motion,  and,  giving  Eva  a  quarter  of  the 
orange  he  was  eating,  said: 

“Well,  Cousin  Vermont,  I  suppose  you  are  all  ready.” 

“  I’ve  been  ready,  waiting,  nearly  an  hour,”  said  Miss 
Ophelia;  “  I  began  to  be  really  concerned  about  you.” 

“  That’s  a  clever  fellow,  now,”  said  he.  “  Well,  the  car¬ 
riage  is  waiting,  and  the  crowd  are  now  off,  so  that  one  can 
walk  out  in  a  decent  and  Christian  manner,  and  not  be 
pushed  and  shoved.  Here,”  he  added  to  a  driver  who  stood 
behind  him,  “  take  these  things.” 

“  I’ll  go  and  see  to  his  putting  them  in,”  said  Miss 
Ophelia. 

“  Oh,  pshaw,  cousin,  what’s  the  use?  ”  said  St.  Clare. 

“  Well,  at  any  rate.  I’ll  carry  this,  and  this,  and  this,”  said 
Miss  Ophelia,  singling  out  three  boxes  and  a  small  carpet- 
bag. 

“  My  dear  Miss  Vermont,  positively,  you  mustn’t  come  the 
Green  Mountains  over  us  that  way.  You  must  adopt  at  least 
a  piece  of  a  Southern  principle,  and  not  walk  out  under  all 
that  load.  They’ll  take  you  for  a  waiting-maid;  give  them 
to  this  fellow;  he’ll  put  them  down  as  if  they  were  eggs, 
now.” 

Miss  Ophelia  looked  despairingly,  as  her  cousin  took  all 
her  treasures  from  her,  and  rejoiced  to  find  herself  once 
more  in  the  carriage  with  them,  in  a  state  of  preservation. 

“  Where’s  Tom?”  said  Eva, 

“  Oh,  he’s  on  the  outside,  pussy.  I’m  going  to  take  Tom 
up  to  mother  for  a  peace-offering,  to  make  up  for  that 
drunken  fellow  that  upset  the  carriage.” 

“  Oh,  Tom  will  make  a  splendid  driver,  I  know.”  said  Eva; 
“he’ll  imer  get  drunk.” 

The  carriage  stopped  in  front  of  an  ancient  mansion,  built 


164  vwcuz  tom’s  .  OAB1M  ;  OB, 

in  that  odd  mixture  of  Spanish  and  French  style  of  which 
there  are  specimens  in  some  parts  of  New  Orleans.  It  wan 
Jbuiit  in  the  Moorish  fashion,— a  square  building  inclosing  a 
courtyard,  into  which  the  carriage  drove  through  an  arched 
gateway.  The  court,  in  the  inside,  had  evidently  been  ar¬ 
ranged  to  gratify  a  picturesque  and  voluptuous  ideality. 
Wide  galleries  ran  all  around  the  four  sides,  whose  Moorish 
arches,  slender  pillars,  and  arabesque  ornaments  carried  the 
mind  back,  as  in  a  dream,  to  the  reign  of  Oriental  romance 
in  Spain.  In  the  middle  of  the  court  a  fountain  threw  high 
Its  silvery  water,  falling  in  a  never-ceasing  spray  into  a 
marble  basin,  fringed  with  a  deep  border  of  fragrant  violets. 
The  water  in  the  fountain,  pellucid  as  crystal,  was  alive  with 
myriads  of  gold  and  silver  fishes,  twinkling  and  darting 
through  it  like  so  many  living  jewels.  Around  the  fountain 
ran  a  walk,  paved  with  a  mosaic  of  pebbles,  laid  in  various 
fanciful  patterns;  and  this,  again,  was  surrounded  by  turf, 
smooth  as  green  velvet,  while  a  carriage-drive  inclosed  the 
whole.  Two  large  orange  trees,  now  fragrant  with  blos¬ 
soms,  threwr  a  delicious  shade;  and  ranged  in  a  circle  round 
upon  the  turf  were  marble  vases  of  arabesque  sculpture, 
containing  the  choicest  flowering  plants  of  the  tropics. 
Huge  pomegranate  trees,  with  their  glossy  leaves  and  flame- 
colored  flowers,  dark-leaved  Arabian  jessamines,  with  their 
silvery  stars,  geraniums,  luxuriant  roses  bending  beneath 
their  heavy  abundance  of  flowers,  golden  jessamines,  lemon- 
scented  verbenas,  all  united  their  bloom  and  fragrance, 
while  here  and  there  a  mystic  old  aloe,  with  its  strange, 
massive  leaves,  sat  looking  like  some  hoary  old  enchanter, 
sitting  in  we.ird  grandeur  among  the  more  perishable  bloom 
and  fragrance  around  it. 

The  galleries  that  surrounded  the  court  were  festooned 
with  a  curtain  of  some  kind  of  Moorish  stuff,  that  could  be 
drawn  down  at  pleasure,  to  exclude  the  beams  of  the  sun. 
On  the  whole,  the  appearance  of  the  place  was  luxurious 
and  romantic. 

As  the  carriage  drove  in  Eva  seemed  like  a  bird  ready  to 
burst  from  a  cage,  with  the  wild  eagerness  of  her  delight. 

“  Oh,  isn’t  it  beautiful,  lovely!  my  own  dear  darling 
home!  ”  she  said  to  Miss  Ophelia.  “  Isn’t  it  beautiful?  ”  : 

“’Tis  a  pretty  place,”  said  Miss  Ophelia,  as  she  alighted; 
^though  it  looks  rather  odd  and  heathenish  to  me.” 

,A  Tom  got  down  from  the  carriage,  and  looked,  about  with. 


XdFB  AMONG  THE  LOWLY  10$ 

an  air  of  calm,  still  enjoyment.  The  negro,  it  must  be  re* 
membered,  is  an  exotic  of  the  most  gorgeous  and  superb 
countries  of  the  world,  and  he  has,  deep  in  his  heart,  a  pas* 
sion  for  all  that  is  splendid,  rich,  and  fanciful;  a  passion 
which,  rudely  indulged  by  an  untrained  taste,  draws  on  him 
the  ridicule  of  the  colder  and  more  correct  white  race. 

St.  Clare,  who  was  in  his  heart  a  poetical  voluptuary,  smiled 
as  Miss  Ophelia  made  her  remark  on  his  premises,  and,  turn¬ 
ing  to  Tom,  who  was  standing  looking  round,  his  beaming 
black  face  perfectly  radiant  with  admiration,  he  said: 

“  Tom,  my  boy,  this  seems  to  suit  you.” 

“  Yes,  mash,  it  looks  about  the  right  thing,”  said  Tom. 

All  this  passed  in  a  moment,  while  trunks  were  being 
hustled  off,  hackman  paid,  and  while  a  crowd,  of  all  ages  and 
sizes,— men,  women,  and  children,— came  running  through 
the  galleries,  both  above  and  below,  to  see  mash  come  in. 
Foremost  among  them  was  a  highly  dressed  young  mulatto 
man,  evidently  a  very  distingue  personage,  attired  in  the 
ultra  extreme  of  the  mode,  and  gracefully  waving  a  scented 
cambric  handkerchief  in  his  hand. 

This  personage  had  been  exerting  himself,  with  great 
alacrity,  in  driving  all  the  flock  of  domestics  to  the  other 
end  of  the  veranda. 

“Back!  all  of  you.  I  am  ashamed  of  you,”  he  said  in  a 
tone  of  authority.  “Would  you  intrude  on  master’s  do¬ 
mestic  relations,  in  the  first  hour  of  his  return?” 

All  looked  abashed  at  this  elegant  speech,  delivered  with 
quite  an  air,  and  stood  huddled  together  at  a  respectful  dis  * 
tance,  except  two  stout  porters,  who  came  up  and  began  con¬ 
veying  away  the  baggage. 

Owing  to  Mr.  Adolph’s  systematic  arrangements,  when  St. 
Clare  turned  round  from  paying  the  hackman  there  was 
nobody  in  view  but  Mr.  Adolph  himself,  conspicuous  in 
satin  vest,  gold  guard-chain,  and  white  pants,  and  bowing 
with  inexpressible  grace  and  suavity. 

“  Ah,  Adolph,  is  it  you?  ”  said  his  master,  offering  his 
hand  to  him;  “how  are  you,  hoy?”  while  Adolph  poured 
forth  with  great  fluency  an  extemporary  speech  which 
he  had  been  preparing  with  great  care  for  a  fortnight  be¬ 
fore. 

“Well,  well,”  said  St,  Clare,  passing  on,  with  his  usual 
air  of  negligent  drollery,  “  that’s  very  well  got  up,  Adolph. 

See  that  the  baggage  i&  well  bestowed.  Til  come  to  the. 


168  ftircLB  tom’s  cabin;  ob9 

people  in  a  minute  j”  and,  so  saying,  he  led  Miss  Ophelia  to  a 
large  parlor  that  opened  on  the  veranda. 

While  this  had  been  passing  Eva  had  flown  like  a  bird, 
through  the  porch  and  parlor,  to  a  little  boudoir  opening 
likewise  on  the  veranda. 

A  tall,  dark-eyed,  sallow  woman  half  rose  from  a  couch 
on  which  she  was  reclining. 

“  Mamma!  ”  said  Eva,  in  a  sort  of  rapture,  throwing  her¬ 
self  on  her  neck,  and  embracing  her  over  and  over  again. 

“  That  ’ll  do, — take  care,  child, — -don’t,  you  make  my 
head  ache,  said  the  mother,  after  she  had  languidly  kissed 
her. 

St.  Clare  came  in,  embraced  his  wife  in  true,  orthodox, 
husbandly  fashion,  and  then  presented  to  her  his  cousin* 
Marie  lifted  her  large  eyes  on  her  cousin  with  an  air  of  some 
curiositjg  and  received  her  with  languid  politeness.  A 
crowd  of  servants  now  pressed  to  the  entry  door,  and  among 
them  a  middle-aged  mulatto  woman  of  very  respectable  ap¬ 
pearance  stood  foremost,  in  a  tremor  of  expectation  and  joy, 
at  the  door. 

“  Oh,  there’s  Mammy!  ”  said  Eva,  as  she  flew  across  the 
room;  and,  throwing  herself  into  her  arms,  she  kissed  her 
repeatedly. 

This  woman  did  not  tell  her  that  she  made  her  head  ache, 
but  on  the  contrary  she  hugged  her,  and  laughed,  and  cried, 
till  her  sanity  was  a  thing  to  be  doubted  of;  and  when  re¬ 
leased  from  her  Eva  flewr  from  one  to  another,  shaking  hands 
and  kissing,  in  a  wray  that  Miss  Ophelia  afterward  declared 
fairly  turned  her  stomach. 

“■Well!”'  said  Miss  Ophelia,  “you  Southern  children  can 
do  something  that  I  couldn’t.” 

“  What,  now,  pray?  ”  said  St.  Clare. 

“Well,  I  want  to  be  kind  to  everybody,  and  I  wouldn’t 
have  anything  hurt;  but  as  to  kissing- - ” 

“  Niggers,”  said  St.  Clare,  “  that  you’re  not  up  to— hey?  ” 

“  Yes,  that’s  it.  How  can  she?  ” 

St.  Clare  laughed,  as  he  went  into  the  passage.  “  Halloa* 
here,  what’s  to  pay  out  here?  Here,  you  all,— Mammy* 
Jimmy,  Polly,  Sukey, — glad  to  see  mas’r?”  he  said,  as  he 
went  shaking  hands  from  one  to  another.  “  Look  out  for 
the  babies!”  he  added,  as  he  stumbled  over  a  sooty  little 
urchin  who  was  crawling  upon  all-fours.  “If  I  step  upon 
anybody,  let  ’em  mention  it.” 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLV*  16? 

There  was  an  abundance  of  laughing  and  blessing  mas  17 
as  St.  Clare  distributed  small  pieces  of  change  among  them. 

“  Come,  now,  take  yourselves  off,  like  good  boys  and 
girls/5  he  said;  and  the  whole  assemblage,  dark  and  light, 
disappeared  through  a  door  into  a  large  veranda,  followed  by 
Eva,  who  carried  a  large  satchel,  which  she  had  been  filling 
with  apples,  nuts,  candy,  ribbons,  laces,  and  toys  of  every 
description,  during  her  whole  homeward  journey. 

As  St.  Clare  turned  to  go  back  his  eye  tell  upon  Tom,  who 
was  standing  uneasily,  shifting  from  one  foot  to  the  other, 
while  Adolph  stood  negligently  leaning  against  the  banisters 
examining  tom  through  an  opera-glass,  with  an  air  that 
would  have  done  credit  to  any  dandy  living. 

“  Puh!  you  puppy,”  said  his  master,  striking  down  the 
opera-glass;  “  is  that  the  way  you  treat  your  company? 
Seems  to  me,  Dolph,”  he  added,  laying  his  finger  on  the  ele¬ 
gant  figured  satin  vest  that  Adolph  was  sporting,  “  seems  to 
me  that's  my  vest.” 

“  Oh,  master,  this  vest  all  stained  with  wine;  of  course  a 
gentleman  in  master’s  standing  never  wears  a  vest  like  this. 
I  understood  I  was  to  take  it.  It  does  for  a  poor  nigger- 
fellow,  like  me  ” 

And  Adolph  tossed  his  head,  and  passed  his  fingers 
through  his  scented  hair,  with  a  grace. 

“  So,  that's  it,  is  it?”  said  St.  Clare  carelessly.  “Well, 
here,  I’m  going  to  show  this  Tom  to  his  mistress,  and  then 
you  take  him  to  the  kitchen;  and  mind  you  don’t  put  on 
any  of  your  airs  to  him.  He's  worth  two  such  puppies  as 
you.” 

“Master  always  will  have  his  joke,”  said  Adolph,  laugh¬ 
ing.  “  I'm  delighted  to  see  master  in  such  spirits.” 

“  Here,  Tom,”  said  St.  Clare,  beckoning. 

Tom  entered  the  room.  He  looked  wistfully  on  the  vel¬ 
vet  carpets,  and  the  before  unimagined  splendors  of  mirrors, 
pictures,  statues,  and  curtains,  and,  like  the  Queen  of  Sheba 
before  Solomon,  there  was  no  more  spirit  in  him.  He 
looked  afraid  even  to  set  his  feet  down. 

“  See  here,  Marie,”  said  St.  Clare  to  his  wife,  “  I've  bought 
you  a  coachman,  at  last,  to  order.  I  tell  you,  he's  a  regular 
hearse  for  blackness  and  sobriety,  and  will  drive  you  like  a 
funeral,  if  you  want.  Open  your  eyes,  now,  and  look  at 
him.  Now  don't  say  I  never  think  about  you  when  I'm 
gone.” 


168  UNOLB  tom’s  CABIN  ;  OB, 

Marie  opened  her  eyes  and  fixed  them  on  Torn.,  without 
rising. 

“  I  know  he’ll  get  drunk/’  she  said. 

“  No,  he’s  warranted  a  pious  and  sober  article/*’ 

“  Well,  I  hope  he  may  turn  out  well/’  said  tne  lady;  “  it’s 
more  than  I  expect,  though.” 

“  Dolph,”  said  St.  Clare,  “  show  Tom  downstairs;  and, 
mind  yourself/’  he  added;  “  remember  what  I  told  you.” 

Adolph  tripped  gracefully  forward,  and  Tom,  with  lum¬ 
bering  tread,  went  after. 

“  He’s  a  perfect  behemoth!  ”  said  Marie. 

“  Come,  now,  Marie/’  said  St.  Clare,  seating  himself  on  a 
stool  beside  her  sofa,  “  be  gracious,  and  say  something, 
pretty  to  a  fellow.” 

“  You’ve  been  gone  a  fortnight  beyond  the  time/’  said  the 
lady,  pouting. 

“  Well,  you  know  I  wrote  you  the  reason.” 

“  Such  a  short,  cold  letter!  ”  said  the  lady. 

“  Dear  me!  the  mail  wras  just  going,  and  it  had  to  be  that 
or  nothing.” 

“  That’s  just  the  way,  always,”  said  the  lady;  “  always 
something  to  make  your  journeys  long,  and  letters  short.” 

“  See  here,  now,”  he  added,  drawing  an  elegant  velvet  case 
out  of  his  pocket,  and  opening  it,  “  here’s  a  present  I  got  for 
you  in  New  York.” 

It  was  a  daguerreotype,  clear  and  soft  as  an  engraving, 
representing  Eva  and  her  father  sitting  hand  in  hand. 

Marie  looked  at  it  with  a  dissatisfied  air. 

“What  made  you  sit  in  such  an  awkward  position/’  she 
6aid. 

“  Well,  the  position  may  be  a  matter  of  opinion;  but  what 
do  you  think  of  the  likeness?  ” 

“  If  you  don’t  think  anything  of  my  opinion  in  one  ease, 
I  suppose  you  wouldn’t  in  another/’  said  the  lady,  shutting 
the  daguerreotype 

“Hang  the  woman!”  said  St.  Clare  mentally;  but  aloud 
he  added,  “  Come  now,  Marie,  what  do  you  think  of  the 
likeness?  Don’t  be  nonsensical,  now.”  , 

“  It’s  very  inconsiderate  of  you,  St.  Clare,”  said  the  lady, 
“  to  insist  on  my  taking  and  looking  at  things.  You  know 
I’ve  been  lying  all  day  with  the  sick-headache;  and  there’s 
been  such  a  tumult  made  ever  since  you  came.  I’m  half 
dead.” 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY,  I6t': 

“  You’re  subject  to  the  sick-headache,  ma^am?  "  said  Miss 
Ophelia,  suddenly  rising  from  the  depths  of  the  large  arm- 
eluar,  where  she  had  sat  quietly,  taking  an  inventory  of  the 
furniture,  and  calculating  its  expense. 

“  Yes,  I'm  a  perfect  martyr  to  it,"  said  the  lady. 

“Juniper-berry  tea  is  good  for  sick-headache,"  said  Miss 
Ophelia;  “at  least,  Auguste,  Deacon  Abraham  Perry's  wife, 
used  to  say  so;  and  she  was  a  great  nurse." 

“Fll  have  the  first  juniper-berries  that  get  ripe  in  our 
garden  by  the  lake  brought  in  for  that  especial  purpose," 
said  St.  Clare,  gravely  pulling  the  hell  as  he  did  so;  “  mean¬ 
while,  cousin,  you  must  be  wanting  to  retire  to  your  apart¬ 
ment,  and  refresh  yourself  a  little,  after  your  journey. 
Dolph,"  he  added,  “  tell  Mammy  to  come  here."  The  decent 
mulatto  woman  whom  Eva  had  caressed  so  rapturously  soon 
entered;  she  was  dressed  neatly,  with  a  high  red-and-yeilow 
turban  on  her  head,  the  recent  gift  of  Eva,  and  which  the 
child  had  been  arranging  on  her  head.  “  Mammy,"  said  St. 
Clare,  “  I  put  this  lady  under  your  care;  she  is  tired,  and 
wants  rest;  take  her  to  her  chamber,  and  be  sure  she  is  made 
comfortable;"  and  Miss  Ophelia  disappeared  in  the  rear  of 
Mammy. 


CHAPTER  XYI. 

tom's  MISTRESS  AMD  HER  OPINIONS. 

“And  now,  Marie,"  said  St.  Clare,  “vour  golden  days 
are  dawning.  Here  is  our  practical,  business-like  New  Eng¬ 
land  cousin,  who  will  take  the  whole  budget  of  cares  off 
your  shoulders,  and  give  you  time  to  refresh  yourself,  and 

frow  young  and  handsome.  The  ceremony  of  delivering  the 
eys  had  better  come  off  forthwith." 

This  remark  was  made  at  the  breakfast  table,  a  few  morn¬ 
ings  after  Miss  Ophelia  had  arrived. 

“I'm  sure  she's  welcome,"  said  Marie,  leaning  her  head 
languidly  on  her  hand.  “  I  think  she'll  find  one  thing,  if 
she  does,  and  that  is  that  it's  we  mistresses  that  are  the 
slaves  down  here." 

“Oh,  certainly,  she  will  discover  that,  and  a  world  of 
wholesome  truths  besides,  no  doubt,"  said  St.  Clare. 

“Tail*  o/Hout  our  keeping  slaves,  as  if  we  did  it  for  our 


|?0  TOOLE  tom’s  cabin:  ok, 

convenience said  Marie.  I'm  sure,  if  we  consulted  that? 
we  might  let  them  all  go  at  once.” 

Evangeline  fixed  her  large,  serious  eyes  on  her  mother's 
face,  with  an  earnest  and  perplexed  expression,  and  said 
simply,  “  What  do  you  keep  them  for,  mamma?  ” 

“  I  don't  know,  I'm  sure,  except  for  a  plague;  they  are 
the  plague  of  my  life.  I  believe  that  more  of  my  ill-health  is 
caused  by  them  than  by  any  one  thing;  and  ours,  I  know, 
are  the  very  worst  that  ever  anybody  was  plagued  with.” 

“  Oh,  come,  come,  Marie,  you've  got  the  blues  this  morn¬ 
ing,”  said  St.  Clare.  “  You  know  'tisn't  so.  There's 
Mammy,  the  best  creature  living,— what  could  you  do  with¬ 
out  her?” 

“  Mammy  is  the  best  I  ever  knew,”  said  Marie;  “  and  yet 
Mammy,  now,  is  selfish,— dreadfully  selfish;  it's  the  fault  of 
the  whole  race.” 

“  Selfishness  is  a  dreadful  fault,”  said  St.  Clare  gravely. 

“  Well,  now,  there's  Mammy,”  said  Marie,  “  I  think  it's 
selfish  of  her  to  sleep  so  sound  nights;  she  knows  I  need 
little  attentions  almost  every  hour,  when  my  worst  turns  are 
on,  and  yet  she's  so  hard  to  wake.  I  absolutely  am  worse 
this  very  morning  for  the  efforts  I  had  to  make  to  wake 
her  last  night.” 

“  Hasn't  she  sat  up  with  you  a  good  many  nights  lately, 
mamma?”  said  Eva. 

“  How  should  you  know  that?  ”  said  Marie  sharply;  “  she's 
been  complaining,  I  suppose.” 

“  She  didn't  complain;  she  only  told  me  what  bad  nights 
you'd  had, — -so  many  in  succession.” 

“  Why  don't  you  let  Jane  or  Rosa  take  her  place  a  night  or 
two  ”  said  St.  Clare,  “  and  let  her  rest?  ” 

“  How  can  you  propose  it?  ”  said  Marie.  “  St.  Clare,  you 
really  are  inconsiderate.  So  nervous  as  I  am,  the  least  breath 
disturbs  me;  and  a  strange  hand  about  me  would  drive  me 
absolutely  frantic.  If  Mammy  felt  the  interest  in  me  she 
ought  to,  she'd  wake  easier, — of  course  she  would.  I've 
heard  of  people  who  had  such  devoted  servants,  but  it  never 
was  my  luck;  ”  and  Marie  sighed. 

Miss  Ophelia  had  listened  to  this  conversation  with  an 
an  air  of  shrewd,  observant  gravity;  and  she  still  kept  her 
lips  tightly  compressed,  as  if  determined  fully  to  ascertain 
her  longitude  and  position  before  she  committed  herself. 

“  Now  Mammy  has  a  sort  of  goodness,”  said  Marie;  “  she's 


AMONG  THE  LOWLY.  l?t 

smooth  and  respectful,  but  she’s  selfish  at  heart.  Nov/*  sh© 
never  will  be  done  fidgeting  and  worrying  about  that  hus¬ 
band  of  hers.  You  see  when  I  was  married  and  came  to 
live  here,  of  course  I  had  to  bring  her  with  me,  and  her 
husband  my  father  couldn’t  spare.  He  was  a  blacksmith, 
and,  of  course,  very  necessary;  and  I  thought  and  said,  at 
the  time,  that  Mammy  and  he  had  better  give  each  other 
up,  as  it  wasn’t  likely  to  be  convenient  for  them  ever  to 
live  together  again.  I  wish,  i*ow,  I’d  insisted  on  it,  and 
married  Mammy  to  somebody  else;  but  I  was  foolish  and  in¬ 
dulgent,  and  didn’t  want  to  insist.  I  told  Mammy,  at  the 
time,  that  she  mustn’t  ever  expect  to  see  him  more  than 
once  or  twTice  in  her  life  again,  for  the  air  of  father’s 
place  doesn’t  agree  with  my  health,  and  I  can’t  go  there; 
and  I  advised  her  to  take  up  with  somebody  else;  but  no— she 
wouldn’t.  Mammy  has  a  kind  of  obstinacy  about  her,  in 
spots,  that  everybody  don’t  see  as  I  do.” 

“Has  she  children?”  said  Miss  Ophelia. 

“Yes;  she  has  two.” 

“  I  suppose  she  feels  the  separation  from  them?  ” 

“  Well,  of  course,  I  couldn’t  bring  them.  They  were  little 
dirty  things,— I  couldn’t  have  them  about;  and,  besides,  they 
took  up  too  much  of  her  time;  but  I  believe  that  Mammy  has 
always  kept  up  a  sort  of  sulkiness  about  this.  She  won’t 
marry  anybody  else;  and  I  do  believe,  now,  though  she 
knows  how  necessary  she  is  to  me,  and  how  feeble  my  health 
is,  she  would  go  back  to  her  husband  to-morrow,  if  she  only 
could.  X  do ,  indeed,”  said  Marie;  “  they  are  just  so  selfish, 
now,  the  best  of  them.” 

“  It’s  distressing  to  reflect  upon,”  said  St.  Clare  dryly. 

Miss  Ophelia  looked  keenly  at  him,  and  saw  the  flush  of 
mortification  and  repressed  vexation,  and  the  sarcastic  cnrl 
of  the  lip,  as  he  spoke. 

“Now,  Mammy  has  always  been  a  pet  with  me,”  said 
Marie.  “  I  wish  some  of  your  Northern  servants  could 
look  at  her  closets  of  dresses, — silks  and  muslins,  and  one 
real  linen  cambric,  she  has  hanging  there.  I’ve  worked 
sometimes  whole  afternoons  trimming  her  caps  and  getting 
her  ready  to  go  to  a  party.  As  to  abuse,  she  don’t  know 
what  it  is.  She  never  was  whipped  more  than  once  or 
twice  in  her  whole  life.  She  has  her  strong  coffee  or  her 
tea  every  day,  with  white  sugar  in  it.  It’s  abominable,  to 
foe  sure;  but  St.  Clare  will  have  high  life  below-stairs,  and 


UNCLE  "  tom’s  cabsm  ;  OB, 


IH 

they  every  one  of  them  live  just  as  they  please.  Tfte  fact  % 
our  servants  are  over-indulged.  I  suppose  it  is  partly  our 
fault  that  they  are  selfish,  and  act  like  spoiled  children; 
but  I  have  talked  to  St.  Clare  till  I  am  tired.” 

"  And  I,  too,”  said  St.  Clare,  taking  up  the  morning 
paper. 

Eva,  the  beautiful  Eva,  had  stood  listening  to  her  mother, 
with  that  expression  of  deep  and  mystic  earnestness  which 
was  peculiar  to  her.  She  walked  softly  round  to  her  mother's 
chair,  and  put  her  arms  around  her  neck. 

"Well,  Eva,  what  now?”  said  Marie. 

"  Mamma,  couldn’t  I  take  care  of  you  one  night, — just 
one?  I  know  I  shouldn't  make  you  nervous,  and  I  shouldn't 
sleep.  I  often  lie  awake  nights,  thinking—” 

"Oh,  nonsense,  child,— nonsense!  ”  said  Marie;  "you  are 
such  a  strange  child!  ” 

"  But  may  I,  mamma?  I  think,”  she  said  timidly,  "that 
Mammy  isn't  well.  She  told  me  her  head  ached  all  the 
time  lately.” 

"  Oh,  that's  just  one  of  Mammy's  fidgets!  Mammy  is  just- 
like  all  the  rest  of  them,— makes  such  a  fuss  about  every 
little  headache  or  fingeraehe;  it  'll  never  do  to  encourage  it,— 
never!  I'm  principled  about  this  matter,”  said  she,  turning 
to  Miss  Ophelia;  "you'll  find  the  necessity  of  it.  If  you 
encourage  servants  in  giving  way  to  every  little  disagree¬ 
able  feeling,  and  complaining  of  every  little  ailment,  you'll 
have  your  hands  full.  I  never  complain  myself, — nobody 
knows  what  I  endure.  I  feel  it  a  duty  to  bear  it  quietly,  and 
I  do.” 

Miss  Ophelia's  round  eyes  expressed  an  undisguised 
amazement  at  this  peroration,  which  struck  St.  Clare  as  so 
supremely  ludicrous  that  he  burst  into  a  loud  laugh. 

"  St.  Clare  always  laughs  when  I  make  the  least  allusion  to 
my  ill-health,”  said  Marie,  with  the  voice  of  a  suffering  mar¬ 
tyr.  "  I  only  hope  the  day  won't  come  when  he'll  remember 
it!  ”  and  Marie  put  her  handkerchief  to  her  eyes. 

Of  course  there  was  rather  a  foolish  silence.  Finally,  St. 
Clare  got  up,  looked  at  his  watch,  and  said  he  had  an  engage¬ 
ment  down  street.  Eva  tripped  away  after  him,  and  Miss 
Ophelia  and  Marie  remained  at  the  table  alone. 

"  Now,  that's  just  like  St.  Clare!  ”  said  the  latter,  with¬ 
drawing  her  handkerchief  with  somewhat  of  a  spirited  flour¬ 
ish,  when  the  criminal  to  be  affected  by  it  was  no,*^r:er  in 


LIFE  AMONG  THB  LOWLY. 


173 


sight.  “He  never  realizes,  never  can,  never  will,  what -l 
suffer,  and  have,  for  years.  If  I  was  one  of  the  complaining 
sort,  or  ever  made  any  fuss  about  my  ailments,  there  would 
bo  some  reason  for  it.  Men  do  get  tired,  naturally,  of  a 
complaining  wife.  But  I’ve  kept  things  to  myself,  and  borne, 
and  borne,  till  St.  Clare  has  got  into  the  way  of  thinking  I 
can  bear  anything.” 

Miss  Ophelia  did  not  exactly  know  what  she  was  expected 
to  answer  to  this. 

While  she  was  thinking  of  what  to  say,  Marie  gradually 
wiped  away  her  tears,  and  smoothed  her  plumage  in  a  general 
sort  of  way,  as  a  dove  might  be  supposed  to  make  toilet 
after  a  shower,  and  began  a  housewifely  chat  with  Miss 
Ophelia,  concerning  cupboards,  closets,  linen-presses,  store* 
rooms,  and  other  matters,  of  which  the  latter  was,  by  com¬ 
mon  understanding,  to  assume  the  direction, — giving  her 
so  many  cautious  directions  and  charges  that  a  head  less  sys¬ 
tematic  and  business-like  than  Miss  Ophelia’s  would  have 
been  utterly  dizzied  and  confounded. 

“  And  now,”  said  Marie,  “  I  believe  I’ve  told  you  every¬ 
thing;  so  that,  when  my  next  sick  turn  comes  on,  you’ll 
be  able  to  go  forward  entirely  without  consulting  me;— 
only  about  Eva, — she  requires  watching.” 

“  She  seems  to  be  a  good  child,  very,”  said  Miss  Ophelia; 
“  I  never  saw  a  better  child.” 

“  Eva’s  peculiar,”  said  her  mother,  “  very.  There  are 
things  about  her  so  singular;  she  isn’t  like  me,  now,  a  par¬ 
ticle;  ”  and  Marie  sighed,  as  if  this  was  a  truly  melancholy 
consideration. 

Miss  Ophelia  in  her  own  heart  said,  “I  hope  she  isn’t,” 
but  had  prudence  enough  to  keep  it  down. 

“Eva  always  was  disposed  to  be  with  servants;  and  X 
think  that  well  enough  with  some  children.  Now,  I  always 
played  with  father’s  little  negroes, — it  never  did  me  any 
harm.  But  Eva  somehow  always  seems  to  put  herself  on 
an  equality  with  every  creature  that  comes  near  her.  It’s 
a  strange  thing  about  the  child.  I  never  have  been  able  to 
break  her  of  it.  St.  Clare,  I  believe,  encourages  her  in  it. 
The  fact  is,  St.  Clare  indulges  every  creature  under  this  roof 
but  his  own  wife.” 

Again  Miss  Ophelia  sat  in  blank  silence. 

“  Now,  there’s  no  way  with  servants,”  said  Marie,  “  but  to 
put  them  down,  and  keep  them  down.  It  was  always  natural 


174  UNCLE  TOM’S  CABIN  |  OR* 

to  me,  from  a  child.  Eva’s  enough  to  spoil  a  whole 
houseful.  What  she  will  do  when  she  comes  to  keep 
house  herself,  I’m  sure  I  don’t  know.  I  hold  to  being 
kind  to  servants,— I  always  am;  but  you  must  make  ’em 
know  their  place.  Eva  never  does;  there’s  no  getting  into 
the  child’s  head  the  first  beginning  of  an  idea  what  a  serv¬ 
ant’s  place  is!  You  heard  her  offering  to  take  care  of  me 
nights,  to  let  Mammy  sleep!  That’s  just  a  specimen  of  the 
way  the  child  would  be  doing  all  the  time,  if  she  was  left 
to  herself.” 

“  Why,”  said  Miss  Ophelia  bluntly,  “  I  suppose  you  think 
your  servants  are  human  creatures,  and  ought  to  have  some 
rest  when  they  are  tired.” 

“  Certainly,  of  course.  I  am  very  particular  in  letting 
them  have  everything  that  comes  convenient,— anything 
that  does  not  put  one  at  all  out  of  the  way,  you  know. 
Mammy  can  make  up  her  sleep,  some  time  or  other;  there’s 
no  difficulty  about  that.  She’s  the  sleepiest  concern  that 
ever  I  saw;  sewing,  standing,  or  sitting,  that  creature  will 
go  to  sleep,  and  sleep  anywhere  and  everywhere.  No  danger 
but  Mammy  gets  sleep  enough.  But  this  treating  servants 
as  if  they  were  exotic  flowers,  or  china  vases,  is  really  ridicu¬ 
lous,”  said  Mane,  as  she  plunged  languidly  into  the  depths 
of  a  voluminous  and  pillowy  lounge,  and’ drew  toward  her 
an  elegant  cut-glass  vinaigrette. 

“You  see,”  she  continued,  in  a  faint  and  ladylike  voice, 
like  the  last  dying  breath  of  an  Arabian  jessamine,  or  some¬ 
thing  equally  ethereal,  “  you  see,  Cousin  Ophelia,  I  don’t 
often  speak  of  myself.  It  isn’t  my  habit ;  ’tisn’t  agreeable 
to  me.  In  fact,  I  haven’t  strength  to  do  it.  But  there  are 
points  where  St.  Clare  and  I  differ.  St.  Clare  never  under¬ 
stood  me,  never  appreciated  me.  I  think  it  lies  at  the  root 
of  all  my  ill-health.  St.  Clare  means  well,  I  am  bound  to 
believe;  but  men  are  constitutionally  selfish  and  inconsid¬ 
erate  to  women.  That,  at  least,  is  my  impression.” 

Miss  Ophelia,  who  had  not  a  small  share  of  the  genuine 
New  England  caution,  and  a  very  particular  horror  of  be¬ 
ing  drawn  into  family  difficulties,  now  began  to  foresee 
something  of  this  kind  impending;  so,  composing  her  face 
into  a  grim  neutrality,  and  drawing  out  of  her  pocket 
about  a  yard  and  a  quarter  of  stocking,  which  she  kept  as  a 
specific  against  what  Dr.  Watts  asserts  to  be  a  personal  habit 
of  Satan  when  people  have  idle  hands,  she  proceeded  to  knit 


XJW  AMQMGr  THIi  LOWLY, 


m 

most  energetically,  shutting  her  lips  together  in  a  way  that 
said,  as  plain  as  words  could,  “  You  needn’t  try  to  make  me 
speak.  I  don’t  want  anything  to  do  with  your  affairs,” — • 
in  fact,  she  looked  about  as  sympathizing  as  a  stone  lion* 
But  Marie  didn’t  care  for  that.  She  had  got  somebody  to 
talk  to,  and  she  felt  it  her  duty  to  talk,  and  that  was  enough; 
and  re-enforcing  herself  by  smelling  again  at  her  vinaigrette, 
she  went  on: 

“  You  see,  I  brought  my  own  property  and  servants  into 
the  connection  when  I  married  St.  Clare,  and  I  am  legally 
entitled  to  manage  them  my  own  way.  St.  Clare  had  his 
fortune  and  his  servants,  and  I  am  well  enough  content 
he  should  manage  them  his  way;  but  St.  Clare  will  be  inter¬ 
fering.  lie  has  wild,  extravagant  notions  about  things,  par¬ 
ticularly  about  the  treatment  of  servants.  He  really  does 
act  as  if  he  set  his  servants  up  before  me,  and  before  himself, 
too;  for  he  lets  them  make  all  sorts  of  trouble,  and  never 
lifts  a  finger.  Now,  about  some  things,  St.  Clare  is  really 
frightful,— he  frightens  me, — good-natured  as  he  looks  in 
general.  Now,  he  has  set  down  his  foot  that,  come  what 
will,  there  shall  not  be  a  blow  struck  in  this  house,  except 
what  he  or  I  strike;  and  he  does  it  in  a  way  that  I  really  dare 
not  cross  him.  Well,  you  may  see  what  that  leads  to;  St. 
Clare  wouldn’t  raise  his  hand  if  every  one  of  them  walked 
over  him,  and  I— you  see  how  cruel  it  would  be  to  require 
me  to  make  the  exertion.  Now,  you  know  these  servants  are 
nothing  but  grown-up  children.” 

“  I  don’t  know  anything  about  it,  and  I  thank  the  Lord 
that  I  don’t,”  said  Miss  Ophelia  shortly. 

“  Well,  but  you  will  have  to  know  something,  and  know  it 
to  your  cost,  if  you  stay  here.  You  don’t  know  what  a  pro* 
voking,  stupid,  careless,  unreasonable,  childish,  ungrateful 
set  of  wretches  they  are.” 

Marie  seemed  wonderfully  supported,  always,  when  she 
got  upon  this  topic;  and  she  now  opened  her  eyes,  and 
seemed  quite  to  forget  her  languor. 

“  You  don’t  know,  and  you  can’t,  the  daily,  hourly  trials 
that  beset  a  housekeeper  from  them,  everywhere  and  every 
way.  But  it’s  no  use  to  complain  to  St.  Clare.  He  talks  the 
strangest  stuff.  He  says  we  have  made  them  what  they  are, 
and  ought  to  bear  with  them.  He  says  their  faults  are  all 
owing  to  us,  and  that  it  would  be  cruel  to  make  the  fault 
and  punish  it  too.  He  says  we  shouldn’t  do  any  better,  in 


H6  UNCLE  TOM?S  CABIN  |  OB, 

their  places;  just  as  if  one  could  reason  from  them  to  m9 
you  know.” 

“  Don’t  you  believe  that  the  Lord  made  them  as  one  blood 
with  us?”  said  Miss  Ophelia  shortly. 

“  No,  indeed,  not  I!  A  pretty  story,  truly!  They  are  a 
degraded  race.” 

“Don’t  you  think  they’ve  got  immortal  souls?”  said 
Miss  Ophelia,  with  increasing  indignation. 

“  Oh,  well,”  said  Marie,  yawning,  “  that,  of  course,— no¬ 
body  doubts  that.  But  as  to  putting  them  on  any  sort  of 
'equality  with  us,  you  know,  as  if  we  could  be  compared,  wyhy, 
it’s  impossible!  Now,  St.  Clare  really  has  talked  to  me  as 
if  keeping  Mammy  from  her  husband  was  like  keeping  me 
from  mine.  There’s  no  comparing  in  this  way.  Mammy 
couldn’t  have  the  feelings  that  I  should.  It’s  a  different 
thing  altogether, — of  course,  it  is,— and  yet  St.  Clare  pre¬ 
tends  not  to  see  it.  And  just  as  if  Mammy  could  love  her 
little  dirty  babies  as  I  love  Eva!  And  yet  St.  Clare  really 
and  soberly  tried  to  persuade  me  that  it  was  my  duty,  with 
my  weak  health  and  all  I  suffer,  to  let  Mammy  go  back,  and 
take  somebody  else  in  her  place.  That  was  a  little  too  much 
even  for  me  to  bear.  I  don’t  often  show  my  feelings.  I 
make  it  a  principle  to  endure  everything  in  silence;  it’s  a 
wife’s  hard  lot,  and  I  bear  it.  But  I  did  break  out,  that 
time;  so  that  he  has  never  alluded  to  the  subject  since.  But 
I  know  by  his  looks,  and  little  things  that  he  says,  that  he 
thinks  so  as  much  as  ever;  and  it’s  so  trying,  so  pro¬ 
voking!  ” 

Miss  Ophelia  looked  very  much  as  if  she  was  afraid  she 
should  say  something;  but  she  rattled  away  with  her  needles 
in  a  way  that  had  volumes  of  meaning  in  it,  if  Marie  could 
only  have  understood  it. 

“So,  you  just  see,”  she  continued,  “what  you’ve  got  to 
manage.  A  household  without  any  rule;  where  servants 
have  it  all  their  own  way,  do  what  they  please,  and  have 
what  they  please,  except  so  far  as  I,  with  my  feeble  health, 
have  kept  up  government.  I  keep  my  cowhide  about,  and 
sometimes  I  do  lay  it  on;  but  the  exertion  is  always  too  much 
for  me.  If  St.  Clare  would  only  have  this  thing  done  as 
others  do—” 

“  And  how’s  that?  ” 

“Why,  send  them  to  the  calaboose,  or  some  of  the  other 
places,  to  be  flogged.  That’s  the  only  way.  If  I  wasn’t 


lilFB  AMONG  THB  LOWL^  ft? 

©rich  a  poor,  feeble  piece,  I  believe  I  shoato  manage  with 
twice  the  energy  that  St.  Clare  does.” 

“  And  how  does  St.  Clare  contrive  to  manage?  ”  said  MMr 
Ophelia.  “  Yon  say  he  never  strikes  a  blow.” 

“  Well,  men  have  a  more  commanding  way,  you  know  ; 
it  is  easier  for  them;  besides,  if  you  ever  looked  full  in  hie 
eye,  it’s  peculiar, — that  eye, — and  if  he  speaks  decidedly, 
there’s  a  kind  of  flash.  I’m  afraid  of  it,  myself;  and  the 
servants  know  they  must  mind.  I  couldn’t  do  as  much  by  a 
regular  storm  and  scolding  as  St.  Clare  can  by  one  turn  of 
his  eye,  if  once  he  is  in  earnest.  Oh,  there’s  no  trouble  about 
St.  Clare;  that’s  the  reason  he’s  no  more  feeling  for  me# 
But  you’ll  find,  when  you  come  to  manage,  that  there’s  no 
getting  along  without  severity, — they  are  so  bad,  so  deceitful, 
so  lazy.” 

“  The  old  tune,”  said  St.  Clare,  sauntering  in.  “  What  an 
awful  account  these  wicked  creatures  will  have  to  settle,  at 
last,  especially  for  being  lazy!  You  see,  cousin,”  said  he, 
as  he  stretched  himself  at  full  length  on  a  lounge  op¬ 
posite  to  Marie,  “  it’s  wholly  inexcusable  in  them,  in  the 
light  of  the  example  that  Marie  and  I  set  them — this  lazi¬ 
ness.” 

u  Come,  now,  St.  Clare,  you  are  too  bad!”  said  Marie. 

“  Am  I,  now?  Why,  I  thought  I  was  talking  good,  quite 
remarkably  for  me.  I  try  to  enforce  your  remarks,  Mario, 
always.” 

“  You  know  you  meant  no  such  thing,  St.  Clare,”  said 
Marie. 

“  Oh,  I  must  have  been  mistaken,  then.  Thank  you,  my 
dear,  for  setting  me  right.” 

“  You  do  really  try  to  be  provoking,”  said  Marie. 

“  Oh,  come,  Marie,  the  day  is  growing  warm,  and  I  have 
just  had  a  long  quarrel  with  Dolph,  which  has  fatigued  me 
excessively;  so,  pray  be  agreeable,  now,  and  let  a  fellow  re¬ 
pose  in  the  light  of  your  smile.” 

“  What’s  the  matter  about  Dolph?”  said  Marie.  “  That 
fellow’s  impudence  has  been  growing  to  a  point  that  is  per¬ 
fectly  intolerable  to  me.  I  only  wish  I  had  the  undisputed 
management  of  him  awhile.  I’d  bring  him  down!  ” 

“  What  you  say,  mv  dear,  is  marked  with  your  usual  acute¬ 
ness  and  good  sense,”  said  St.  Clare.  “  As  to  Dolph,  the  case 
is  this:  that  he  has  so  long  been  engaged  in  imitating  my 
graces  and  perfections  that  he  has  at  last  really  mistaken 


Its  TOCLB  TOMfS  CABOT  I  OS f 

tirraself  for  Ms  master;  and  I  have  been  obliged  to  give  Mm  ffi 
little  insight  into  his  mistake  ” 

*  How?  ”  said  Marie. 

“  Why,  I  was  obliged  to  let  him  understand  explicitly 
that  I  preferred  to  keep  some  of  my  clothes  for  my  own  per* 
ional  wearing;  also,  I  put  his  magnificence  upon  an  allowance 
of  cologne-water,  and  actually  was  so  cruel  as  to  restrict  him 
to  one  dozen  of  my  cambric  handkerchiefs.  Dolph  was  par« 
ticnlariy  huffy  about  it,  and  I  had  to  talk  to  him  like  a  father 
to  bring  him  round.” 

“  Oh,  St.  Clare,  when  will  you  learn  how  to  treat  yom 
servants?  It’s  abominable,  the  way  you  indulge  them!” 
said  Marie. 

“  Why,  after  all,  what’s  the  harm  of  the  poor  dog’s  want¬ 
ing  to  be  like  his  master;  and  if  I  haven’t  brought  him 
up  any  better  than  to  find  his  chief  good  in  cologne 
and  cambric  handkerchiefs,  why  shouldn’t  I  give  them  to 
him?  ” 

“  And  why  haven’t  you  brought  him  up  better?  ”  said  Mir 
Ophelia,  with  blunt  determination. 

“  Too  much  trouble, — laziness,  cousin,  laziness,— whic 
ruins  more  souls  than  you  can  shake  a  stick  at.  If  it  weren  ; 
for  laziness,  I  should  have  been  a  perfect  angel  myself.  I’ra 
inclined  to  think  that  laziness  is  what  your  old  Dr.  BotLi* 
erern  up  in  Vermont  used  to  call  the  essence  of  moral  evil,; 
It’s  an  awful  consideration,  certainly.” 

“  I  think  you  slave-holders  have  an  awful  responsibility 
upon  you,”  said  Miss  Ophelia.  “1  wouldn’t  have  it  toz  a 
thousand  worlds.  You  ought  to  educate  your  slaves  uhc 
treat  them  like  reasonable  creatures,* — like  immortal  cxea^ 
lures,  that  you’ve  got  to  stand  before  the  bar  of  God  with. 
That’s  my  mind,”  said  the  good  lady,  breaking  suddenly 
out  with  a  tide  of  zeal  that  had  been  gaining  strength  in  Em( 
mind  all  the  morning. 

“  Oh,  come,  come,”  said  St.  Clare,  getting  up  quicMy  s 
^what  do  you  know  about  us?”  And  he  sat  down  toj  the 
piano  and  rattled  off  a  lively  piece  of  music.  St.  Clare  'lad  a 
decided  genius  for  music.  His  touch  was  brilliant  am  :rn\ 
and  his  fingers  flew  over  the  keys  with  a  rapid  and  hi  .4ik& 
mo  ion,  a*  y,  and  yet  decided.  He  played  piece  after  :  iecef 
like  a  man  Ma  is  trying  to  play  himself  into  a  good  :imou 
After  pushing  the  music  aside,  he  rose  up  and  saidyppdy. 
m  Wall-  -  ■  cousin,  you’ve  given  us  a  good  talk,  ar 


UFB  AMONG  THE  L0WI.Y,  If# 

your  duty;  on  the  whole,  I  think  the  better  of  you  for  it 
I  make  no  manner  of  doubt  that  you  threw  a  very  diamond 
of  truth  at  me,  though  you  see  it  hit  me  so  directly  in  the 
face  that  it  wasn’t  exactly  appreciated  at  first.” 

“  For  my  part,  I  don’t  see  any  use  in  such  sort  of  talk,” 
said  Marie.  “  I  am  sure  if  anybody  does  any  more  for  serv¬ 
ants  than  we  do  I’d  like  to  know  who;  and  it  don’t  do  ’em 
a  bit  of  good, — -not  a  particle,— they  get  worse  and  worse.  As 
to  talking  to  them,  or  anything  like  that,  I  am  sure  I  have 
talked  till  I  was  tired  and  hoarse,  telling  them  their  duty, 
and  all  that;  and  I’m  sure  they  can  go  to  church  when  they 
like,  though  they  don’t  understand  a  word  of  the  sermon 
more  than  so  many  pigs, — so  it  isn’t  of  any  great  use  for 
them  to  go,  as  I  see;  but  they  do  go,  and  so  they  have  every 
chance;  but,  as  I  said  before,  they  are  a  degraded  race  and 
always  will  be,  and  there  isn’t  any  help  for  them;  you  can’t 
make  anything  of  them,  if  you  try.  You  see,  Cousin  Ophelia, 
I’ve  tried  and  you  haven’t;  I  was  born  and  bred  among  them 
and  I  know.” 

Miss  Ophelia  thought  she  had  said  enough,  and  therefore 
sat  silent.  St.  Clare  whistled  a  tune. 

“  St.  Clare,  I  wish  you  wouldn’t  whistle,”  said  Marie;  “  it 
makes  my  head  worse.” 

“I  won’t,”  said  St.  Clare.  “Is  there  anything  else  you 
wouldn’t  wish  me  to  do?  ” 

“I  wish  you  would  have  some  kind  of  sympathy  for  my 
trials;  you  never  have  any  feeling  for  me.” 

“  My*  dear  accusing  angel!  ”  said  St.  Clare. 

“  It’s  provoking  to  be  talked  to  in  that  way.” 

“Then  how  will  you  be  talked  to?  I’ll  talk  to  order,— 
any  way  you’ll  mention, — only  to  give  satisfaction.” 

A  gay  laugh  from  the  court  rang  through  the  silken  cur¬ 
tains  of  the  veranda.  St.  Clare  stepped  out  and,  lifting  up 
the  curtain,  laughed  too. 

“  What  is  it?  ”  said  Miss  Ophelia,  coming  to  the  railing. 

There  sat  Tom  on  a  little  mossy  seat  in  the  court,  every 
one  of  his  buttonholes  stuck  full  of  cape- jessamines,  and  Eva, 
gayly  laughing,  was  hanging  a  wreath  of  roses  round  his 
neck;  and  then  she  sat  down  on  his  knee,  like  a  chip-sparrow, 
still  laughing. 

“  Oh,  Tom,  you  look  so  funny!  ” 

Tom  had  a  sober,  benevolent  smile,  and  seemed,  in  his 
guiet  way,  to  be  enjoying  the  fun  quite  m  much  as  hm  little 


1S0  imcm  tom’s  oabik  %  o% 

mistress.  He  lifted  his  eyes  when  he  saw  his  master,  witS 
a  half-depreeating,  apologetic  air. 

“  How  can  yon  let  her?  ”  said  Miss  Ophelia. 

“  Why  not?"  said  St.  Clare. 

“  Why,  I  don’t  know,  it  seems  so  dreadful! " 

“  You  would  think  no  harm  in  a  child’s  caressing  a  large 
dog,  even  if  he  was  black;  but  a  creature  that  can  think  and 
reason,  and  feel,  and  is  immortal,  you  shudder  at;  confess  it, 
cousin.  I  know  the  feeling  among  some  of  you  Northerners 
well  enough.  Not  that  there  is  a  particle  of  virtue  in  our 
not  having  it;  hut  custom  with  us  does  what  Christianity 
ought  to  do, — obliterates  the  feeling  of  personal  prejudice. 
I  have  often  noticed,  in  my  travels  North,  how  much  stronger 
this  was  with  you  than  with  us.  You  loathe  them  as  you 
would  a  snake  or  a  toad,  yet  you  are  indignant  at  their 
wrongs.  You  would  not  have  them  abused;  yet  you  don’t 
want  to  have  anything  to  do  with  them  yourselves.  You 
would  send  them  to  Africa,  out  of  your  sight  and  smell,  and 
then  send  a  missionary  or  two  to  do  up  all  the  self-denial  of 
elevating  them  compendiously.  Isn’t  that  it?  ” 

“  Well,  cousin,”  said  Miss  Ophelia  thoughtfully,  “  there 
may  be  some  truth  in  this.” 

“What  would  the  poor  and  lowly  do  without  children?” 
said  St.  Clare,  leaning  on  the  railing,  and  vvatching  Eva  &b 
she  tripped  off,  leading  Tom  with  her.  “  Your  little  child  is 
your  only  true  democrat.  Tom,  now,  is  a  hero  to  Eva;  his 
stories  are  wonders  in  her  eyes,  his  songs  and  Methodist 
hymns  are  better  than  an  opera,  and  the  traps  and  little 
bits  of  trash  in  his  pocket  a  mine  of  jewels,  and  he  the  most 
wonderful  Tom  that  ever  wore  a  black  skin.  This  is  one  of 
the  roses  of  Eden  that  the  Lord  ha^  dropped  down  ex¬ 
pressly  for  the  poor  and  lowly,  who  get  few  enough  of  any 
other  kind.” 

“  It’s  strange,  cousin,”  said  Miss  Ophelia;  “  one  might 
almost  think  you  were  a  professor ,  to  hear  you  talk.” 

“A  professor?”  said  St.  Clare. 

“Yes;  a  professor  of  religion.” 

“Not  at  all;  not  a  professor,  as  your  townfolks  have  it;  and, 
what  is  worse,  I’m  afraid,  not  a  practicer  either.” 

“What  makes  you  talk  so,  then?  ” 

“Nothing  is  easier  than  talking,”  said  St.  Clare.  “I  be¬ 
lieve  Shakspere  makes  somebody  say,  *  I  could  sooner  show 
fitwenty  what  were  good  to  be  done*  than  foe  one  of  tfot 


LIFE  AMOTSG  THIS  LOWLT* 


161 


twenty  to  follow  my  own  showing/  Nothing  like  division  of 
labor.  My  forte  lies  in  talking,  and  yours,  cousin,  lies  in 
doing/’ 

In  Tom’s  external  situation,  at  this  time,  there  was,  as  the 
world  says,  nothing  to  complain  of.  Little  Eva’s  fancy  for 
him — the  instinctive  gratitude  and  loveliness  of  a  noble  na¬ 
ture — had  led  her  to  petition  her  father  that  he  might  be 
her  especial  attendant  whenever  she  needed  the  escort  of 
a  servant  in  her  walks  or  rides;  and  Tom  had  general  orders 
to  let  everything  else  go  and  attend  to  Miss  Eva  whenever 
she  wanted  him, — orders  which,  our  readers  may  fancy,  were 
far  from  disagreeable  to  him.  He  was  kept  well-dressed, 
for  St.  Clare  was  fastidiously  particular  on  this  point.  His 
stable  services  were  merely  a  sinecure,  and  consisted  simply 
in  daily  care  and  inspection,  and  directing  an  under-servant 
in  his  duties;  for  Marie  St.  Clare  declared  that  she  could  not 
have  any  smell  of  the  horses  about  him  when  he  came  near 
her,  and  that  he  must  positively  not  be  put  to  any  service 
that  would  make  him  unpleasant  to  her,  as  her  nervous  sys¬ 
tem  was  entirely  inadequate  to  any  trial  of  that  nature; 
one  snuff  of  anything  disagreeable  being,  according  to  her 
account,  quite  sufficient  to  close  the  scene  and  put  an  end 
to  all  her  earthly  trials  at  once.  Tom,  therefore,  in  his 
well-brushed  broadcloth  suit,  smooth  beaver,  glossy  boots, 
faultless  wristbands  and  collar,  with  his  grave,  good-natured 
black  face,  looked  respectable  enough  to  be  a  bishop  of 
Carthage,  as  men  of  color  were  in  other  ages. 

Then,  too,  he  was  in  a  beautiful  place,  a  consideration  to 
which  his  sensitive  race  are  never  indifferent;  and  he  did 
enjoy,  with  a  quiet  joy,  the  birds,  the  flowers,  the  fountains, 
the  perfume,  and  light  and  beauty  of  the  court,  the  silken 
hangings,  and  pictures,  and  lusters,  and  statuettes,  and  gild¬ 
ing  that  made  the  parlors  within  a  kind  of  Aladdin’s  pal¬ 
ace  to  him. 

If  ever  Africa  shall  show  an  elevated  and  cultivated  race* 
— and  come  it  must,  some  time,  her  turn  to  figure  in  the 
great  drama  of  human  improvement,  life  will  awake  there 
with  a  gorgeousness  and  splendour  of  which  our  cold  Western 
bribes  faintly  have  conceived.  In  that  far-off  mystic  land  of 
gold,  and  gems,  and  spices,  and  waving  palms  and  wondrous 
flowers  and  miraculous  fertility  will  awake  new  forms  of 
art,  new  styles  of  splendor;  and  the  negro  race,  no  longeu 


°I82 


tools  tom’s  cabin  ;  ob, 

despised  and  trodden  down,  will,  perhaps,  show  forth  some 
of  the  latest  and  most  magnificent  revelations  of  human  life. 
Certainly  they  will  in  their  gentleness,  their  lowly  docility  of 
heart,  their  aptitude  to  repose  on  a  superior  mind  and  rest 
on  a  higher  power,  their  childlike  simplicity  of  affection 
and  facility  of  forgiveness.  In  all  these  they  will  exhibit 
the  highest  form  of  the  peculiarly  Christian  hfe,  and,  per¬ 
haps,  as  God  chasteneth  whom  he  loveth,  he  hath  chosen 
poor  Africa,  in  the  furnace  of  affliction,  to  make  her  the 
highest  and  noblest  in  that  kingdom  which  he  will  set  up 
when  every  other  kingdom  has  been  tried  and  failed,  for  the 
first  shall  be  last,  and  the  last  first. 

Was  this  what  Marie  St.  Clare  was  thinking  of,  as  she 
stood,  gorgeously  dressed,  on  the  veranda,  on  Sunday  morn¬ 
ing,  clasping  a  diamond  bracelet  on  her  slender  wrist?  Most 
likely  it  was.  Or,  if  it  wasn’t  that,  it  was  something  else; 
for  Marie  patronized  good  things,  and  she  was  going  now, 
in  full  force,— diamonds,  silk,  and  lace,  and  jewels,  and  all, 
— -to  a  fashionable  church,  to  be  very  religious.  Marie  always 
made  it  a  point  to  be  very  pious  on  Sundays.  There  she  stood, 
so  slender,  so  elegant,  so  airy  and  undulating  in  all  her 
motions,  her  lace  scarf  enveloping  her  like  a  mist.  She 
looked  a  graceful  creature,  and  she  felt  very  good  and  very 
elegant  indeed.  Miss  Ophelia  stood  at  her  side,  a  perfect  con¬ 
trast.  It  was  not  that  she  had  not  as  handsome  a  silk  dress 
and  shawl,  and  as  fine  a  pocket  handkerchief;  but  stiffness 
and  squareness  and  bolt-uprightness  enveloped  her  with  as 
indefinite  yet  appreciable  a  presence  as  did  grace  her  elegant 
neighbor;  not  the  grace  of  God,  however, — -that  is  quite 
another  thing! 

“Where’s  Eva?”  said  Marie. 

“  The  child  stopped  on  the  stairs  to  say  something  to 
Mammy.” 

And  what  was  Eva  saying  to  Mammy  on  the  stairs? 
Listen,  reader,  and  you  will  hear,  though  Marie  does  not. 

“  Dear  Mammy,  I  know  your  head  , is  aching  dreadfully.” 

“  Lord  bless  you,  Miss  Eva!  my  head  alters  aches,  lately* 
You  don’t  need  to  worry.” 

“  Well,  I’m  glad  you’re  going  out;  and  here/’ — and  the 
little  girl  threw  her  arms  around  her, — “  Mammy,  you  shall 
take  my  vinaigrette.” 

“What!  your  beautiful  gold  thing,  thar,  with  them  dill* 
monds!  Lort  miss.,  ’twonldn’t  be  proper,  now&ya.” 


LIFE  AMONG  TH£- LOWLY* 


ita 


"Why  not?  You  need  it,  and  1  don’t.  Mamma  always 
uses  it  for  headache,  and  it  'll  make  you  feel  better.  No* 
you  shall  take  it,  to  please  me,  now.” 

4*  Jjo  you  hear  the  darling  talk!  ”  said  Mammy,  as  Eva 
thrust  it  into  her  bosom,  and  kissing  her,  ran  downstairs  to 
her  mother. 

4*  What  were  you  stopping  for? ” 

"  I  was  just  stopping  to  give  Mammy  my  vinaigrette  to 
take  to  church  with  her.” 

"Eva!”  said  Marie,  stamping  impatiently,— "  your  gold 
vinaigrette  to  Mammy!  When  will  ycu  learn  what’s  proper ? 
Go  right  and  take  it  back,  this  moment! 99 

Eva-  looked  downcast  and  aggrieved,  and  turned  slowly. 

“I  say,  Marie,  let  the  child  alone;  she  shall  do  as  she 
pleases,”  said  St.  Clare. 

"  St.  Clare,  how  will  she  ever  get  along  in  the  world?” 
said  Marie. 

44  The  Lord  knows,”  said  St.  Clare;  "but  she’ll  get  along 
in  heaven  better  than  you  or  I.” 

"Oh,  papa,  don’t,”  said  Eva,  softly  touching  his  elbow; 
“it  troubles  mother.” 

44  Well,  cousin,  are  you  ready  to  go  to  meeting?  ”  said 
Miss  Ophelia,  turning  square  about  on  St.  Clare. 

44  I’m  not  going,  thank  you.” 

44  I  do  wish  St.  Clare  ever  would  go  to  church,”  said  Marie; 
“but  he  hasn’t  a  particle  of  religion  about  him.  It  really 
isn’t  respectable.” 

44 1  know  it,”  said  St.  Clare.  “  You  ladies  go  to  church  to 
learn  how  to  get  along  in  the  world,  I  suppose,  and  your 
piety  sheds  respectability  on  us.  If  I  did  go  at  all,  I  would 
go  where  Mammy  goes;  there’s  something  to  keep  a  fellow 
awake  there,  at  least.” 

"What!  those  shouting  Methodists?  Horrible!”  said 
Marie. 

"  Anything  but  the  dead  sea  of  your  respectable  chlrches, 
Marie.  Positively,  it’s  too  much  to  ask  of  a  man.  Eva,  do 
you  like  to  go?  Come,  stay  at  home  and  play  with  me.” 

"  Thank  you,  papa;  but  I’d  rather  go  to  church.” 

"  Isn’t  it  dreadful  tiresome?  ”  said  St.  Clare. 

"I  think  it;  is  tiresome,  some,”  said  Eva;  "and  I  am 
sleepy,  too,  but  I  try  to  keep  awake.” 

"What  do  you  go  for,, then?” 

;  "Why,  you  know,  papa,”  she  said. in  a  whisper,  "tousin 


184 


TJHCXJB  TOM’b  CABIN  ;  OB* 

told  me  that  God  wants  to  have  ns;  and  he  gives  ns  ewj- 
thing,  you  know;  and  it  isn’t  much  to  do  it,  if  he  wants  us  to. 
It  isn’t  so  very  tiresome,  after  all.” 

“  You  sweet,  little  obliging  soul!”  said  St.  Clare,  kissing 
her;  “  go  along,  that’s  a  good  girl,  and  pray  for  me.” 

“  Certainly,  I  always  do,”  said  the  child,  as  she  sprang 
after  her  mother  into  the  carriage. 

St.  Clare  stood  on  the  steps  and  kissed  his  hand  to  her, 
as  the  carriage  drove  away;  large  tears  were  in  his  eyes. 

“  Oh,  Evangeline!  rightly  named,”  he  said;  “hath  not 
God  made  thee  an  evangel  to  me?” 

So  he  felt  a  moment;  and  then  he  smoked  a  cigar,  and 
read  the  Picayune ,  and  forgot  his  little  gospel.  Was  he  much 
unlike  other  folks? 

“  You  see,  Evangeline,”  said  her  mother,  “  it’s  always 
right  and  proper  to  be  kind  to  servants,  but  it  isn’t  proper 
to  treat  them  just  as  we  would  our  relations  or  people  in 
our  own  class  of  life.  Now,  if  Mammy  was  sick,  you  wouldn’t 
want  to  put  her  in  your  bed.” 

“I  should  feel  like  it,  mamma,”  said  Eva,  “because  then 
it  would  be  handier  to  take  care  of  her,  and,  because,  you 
know,  my  bed  is  better  than  hers.” 

Marie  was  in  utter  despair  at  the  entire  want  of  moral 
perception  evinced  in  this  reply. 

“  What  can  I  do  to  make  this  child  understand  me?  ”  she 
said. 

“Nothing,”  said  Miss  Ophelia  significantly. 

Eva  looked  sorry  and  disconcerted  for  a  moment;  but 
children,  luckily,  do  not  keep  to  one  impression  long,  and  in 
a  few  moments  she  was  merrily  laughing  at  various  things 
which  she  saw  from  the  coach-windows  as  it  rattled  along. 

“Well,  ladies,”  said  St.  Clare,  as  they  were  comfortably 
seated  at  the  dinner-table,  “  and  what  was  the  bill  of  fare  at 
church  to-day?  ” 

“  Oh,  Dr.  G — —  preached  a  splendid  sermon,”  said  Marie. 
“It  was  just  such  a  sermon  as  you  ought  to  hear;  it  ex*; 
pressed  all  my  views  exactly.” 

“  It  must  have  been  very  improving,”  said  St.  Clare. 
“  The  subject  must  have  been  an  extensive  one.” 

“Well,  I  mean  all  my  views  about  society  and  such 
things,”  said  Marie.  “  The  text  was,  ‘  He  hath  made  every¬ 
thing  beautiful  in  its  season;  ’  and  he  showed  how  all  the 


18$ 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOmU 

orders  and  distinctions  in  society  came  from  God;  and  that 
it  was  so  appropriate,  you  know,  and  beautiful,  that  some 
should  be  high  and  some  low,  and  some  were  born  to  rule 
and  some  to  serve,  and  all  that,  you  know;  and  he  applied  it 
so  well  to  all  this  ridiculous  fuss  that  is  made  about  slavery, 
and  he  proved  distinctly  that  the  Bible  was  on  our  side,  and 
supported  all  our  institutions  so  convincingly.  I  only  wish 
you’d  heard  him.” 

“  Oh,  I  didn’t  need  it,”  said  St.  Clare.  “  I  can  learn  what 
does  me  as  much  good  as  that  from  the  Picayune ,  any  time, 
and  smoke  a  cigar  besides;  which  I  can’t  do,  you  know,  in  a 
church.” 

“Why,”  said  Miss  Ophelia,  “don’t  you  believe  in  these 
views?  ” 

“Who, — I?  You  know  I’m  such  a  graceless  dog  that 
these  religious  aspects  of  such  subjects  don’t  edify  me  much. 
If  I  was  to  say  anything  on  this  slavery  matter  I  would  say 
out,  fair  and  square,  c  We’re  in  for  it;  we’ve  got  ’em,  and 
mean  to  keep  ’em — it’s  for  our  convenience  and  our  in¬ 
terest;  ’  for  that’s  the  long  and  short  of  it — that’s  just  the 
whole  of  what  all  this  sanctified  stuff  amounts  to,  after  all; 
and  I  think  that  will  be  intelligible  to  everybody,  every¬ 
where.” 

“I  do  think,  Augustine,  you  are  so  irreverent!”  said 
Marie.  “  I  think  it’s  shocking  to  hear  you  talk.” 

“  Shocking!  It’s  the  truth.  This  religious  talk  on  such 
matters, — why  don’t  they  carry  it  a  little  further,  and  show 
the  beauty,  in  its  season,  of  a  fellow’s  taking  a  glass  too 
much,  and  sitting  a  little  too  late  over  his  cards,  and  various 
providential  arrangements  of  that  sort,  which  are  pretty  fre¬ 
quent  among  us  young  men;  we’d  like  to  hear  that  those  are 
right  and  godly,  too.” 

“  Well,”  said  Miss  Ophelia,  “  do  you  think  slavery  right 
or  wrong?  ” 

“  I’m  not  going  to  have  any  of  your  horrid  New  England 
directness,  cousin,”  said  St.  Clare  gayly.  “  If  I  answer  that 
question  I  know  you  will  be  at  me  with  half  a  dozen  others, 
each  one  harder  than  the  last;  and  I’m  not  a-going  to  define 
my  position.  I  am  one  of  the  sort  that  live  by  throwing 
stones  at  other  people’s  glass  houses,  but  I  never  mean  to 
put  up  one  for  them  to  stone.” 

“  That’s  just  the  way  he’s  always  talking,”  said  Marie; 
*  you  can’t  get  any  satisfaction  out  of  him.  I  believe  it’s  just 


186 


UNCLE  TOM?S  CABIN  ;  OB, 

because  he  don’t  like  religion  that  he’s  always  running  out 
in  this  way  he’s  been  doing.” 

“  Religion!”  said  St.  Clare,  in  a  tone  that  made  both 
ladies  look  at  him.  “  Eeligion!  Is  what  you  hear  at 
church  religion?  Is  that  which  can  bend  and  turn,  and  de¬ 
scend  and  ascend,  to  fit  every  crooked  phase  of  selfish, 
worldly  society,  religion?  Is  that  religion  which  is  less  scru¬ 
pulous,  less  generous,  less  just,  less  considerate  for  man  than 
even  my  own  ungodly,  worldly,  blinded  nature?  No!  When  I 
look  for  a  religion,  I  must  look  for  something  above  me, 
and  not  something  beneath.” 

“  Then  you  don’t  believe  that  the  Bible  justifies  slavery,” 
said  Miss  Ophelia. 

“  The  Bible  was  my  mother’s  book,”  said  St.  Clare.  “  By 
it  she  lived  and  died,  and  I  would  be  very  sorry  to  think  it 
did.  I’d  as  soon  desire  to  have  it  proved  that  my  mother 
could  drink  brandy,  chew  tobacco  and  swear,  by  way  of  sat¬ 
isfying  me  that  I  did  right  in  doing  the  same.  It  wouldn’t 
make  me  at  all  more  satisfied  with  these  things  in  myself, 
and  it  would  take  from  me  the  comfort  of  respecting  her; 
and  it  really  is  a  comfort,  in  this  world,  to  have  anything 
one  can  respect.  In  short,  you  see,”  said  he,  suddenly  re¬ 
suming  his  gay  tone,  “  all  I  want  is  that  different  things  be 
kept  in  different  boxes.  The  whole  framework  of  society, 
both  in  Europe  and  America,  is  made  up  of  various  things 
which  will  not  stand  the  scrutiny  of  any  very  ideal  standard 
of  morality.  It’s  pretty  generally  understood  that  men  don’t 
aspire  after  the  absolute  right,  but  only  to  do  about  as  well  as 
the  rest  of  the  world.  Now,  when  anyone  speaks  up  like  a 
man  and  says  slavery  is  necessary  to  us,  we  can’t  get  along 
without  it,  we  should  be  beggared  if  we  gave  it  up,  and,  of 
course,  we  mean  to  hold  on  to  it, — this  is  strong,  clear, 
well-defined  language;  it  has  the  respectability  of  truth  to 
it;  and  if  we  may  judge  by  their  practice,  the  majority  of 
the  world  will  bear  us  out  in  it.  But  when  he  begins  to  put 
on  a  long  face,  and  snuffle,  and  quote  Scripture,  I  incline 
to  think  he  isn’t  much  better  than  he  should  be.” 

“  You  are  very  uncharitable,”  said  Marie. 

“  Well,”  said  St.  Clare,  “  suppose  that  something  should 
bring  down  the  price  of  cotton  once  and  forever,  and  make  the 
whole  slave  property  a  drug  in  the  market,  don’t  you  think 
we  should  soon  have  another  version  of  the  Scripture  doc¬ 
trine?  AY  hat  a  flood  of  light  would  pour  into  '  church 


187 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY. 

all  once,  and  how  immediately  it  would  be  discovered 
that  everything  in  the  Bible  and  reason  went  the  other 
way!  ” 

“  Well,  at  any  rate,”  said  Marie,  as  she  reclined  herself  on 
a  lounge,  “  Pm  thankful  Pm  born  where  slavery  exists;  and, 
I  believe  iPs  right, — indeed,  I  feel  it  must  be;  and,  at  any 
rate,  Pm  sure  I  couldn’t  get  along  without  it.” 

“I  say,  what  do  you  think,  pussy?”  said  her  father  to 
Eva,  who  came  in  at  this  moment,  with  a  flower  in  her  hand. 

“  What  about,  papa?  ” 

“  Why,  which  would  you  like  the  best,— to  live  as  they 
do  at  your  uncle’s,  up  in  Vermont,  or  to  have  a  houseful 
of  servants,  as  wTe  do?” 

“  Oh,  of  course  our  way  is  the  pleasantest,”  said  Eva. 

“  Why  so?”  said  St.  Clare,  stroking  her  head. 

“  Why,  it  makes  so  many  more  around  you  to  love,  you 
know,”  said  Eva,  looking  up  earnestly. 

“Now,  that’s  just  like  Eva,”  said  Marie;  “just  one  of 
her  odd  speeches.” 

“Is  it  an  odd  speech,  papa?”  said  Eva  whisperingly,  as 
she  got  upon  his  knee. 

“  Rather,  as  this  world  goes,  pussy,”  said  St.  Clare.  “  But 
where  has  my  little  Eva  been,  all  dinner-time?  ” 

“  Oh,  I’ve  been  up  in  Tom’s  room,  hearing  him  sing,  and 
Aunt  Dinah  gave  me  my  dinner.” 

“  Hearing  Tom  sing,  hey?  ” 

“Oh,  yes!  he  sings  such  beautiful  things  about  the  Hew 
Jerusalem,  and  bright  angels,  and  the  land  of  Canaan.” 

“  I  dare  say;  it’s  better  than  the  opera,  isn’t  it?  ” 

“Yes,  and  he’s  going  to  teach  them  to  me.” 

“  Singing  lessons,  hey, — you  are  coming  on.” 

“  Yes,  he  sings  for  me,  and  I  read  to  him  in  my  Bible;  and 
he  explains  what  it  means,  you  know.” 

“  On  my  word,”  said  Marie,  laughing,  “  that  is  the  latest 
joke  of  the  season.” 

“  Tom  isn’t  a  bad  hand,  now,  at  explaining  Scripture, 
I’ll  dare  swear,”  said  St.  Clare.  “  Tom  has  a  natural  genius 
for  religion.  I  wanted  the  horses  out  early  this  morning, 
and  I  stole  up  to  Tom’s  eubicuium  there,  over  the  stables* 
and  there  I  heard  him  holding  a  meeting  by  himself;  and* 
in  fact,  I  haven’t  heard  anything  quite  so  savory  as  Tom’s 
pra}rei\  i  his  some  time.  He  put  in  for  me,  with  a  zeal  that 
iWas  auit*  apostolic.” 


188 


UNCLE  TOM’S  CABOT ;  OR, 

“  Perhaps  he  guessed  you  were  listening.  I’ve  heard  of 
that  trick  before.” 

“  If  he  did  he  wasn’t  very  politic;  for  he  gave  the  Lord 
Ms  opinion  of  me  pretty  freely.  Tom  seemed  to  think  there 
was  decidedly  room  for  improvement  in  me,  and  seemed 
very  earnest  that  I  should  be  converted.” 

“  I  hope  you’ll  lay  it  to  heart,”  said  Miss  Ophelia. 

“  I  suppose  you  are  much  of  the  same  opinion,”  said  St. 
Clare.  “  Well,  we  shall  see,— shan’t  we,  Eva?  ” 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

THE  FREEMAN’S  DEFENSE. 

There  was  a  gentle  bustle  at  the  Quaker  house  as  the 
afternoon  drew  to  a  close.  Rachel  Halliday  moved  quietly 
to  and  fro,  collecting  from  her  household  stores  such  need¬ 
ments  as  could  be  arranged  in  the  smallest  compass  for  the 
wanderers  who  were  to  go  forth  that  night.  The  afternoon 
shadows  stretched  eastward,  and  the  round  red  sun  stood 
thoughtfully  on  the  horizon,  and  his  beams  shone  yellow 
and  calm  into  the  little  bedroom  where  George  and  his  wife 
were  sitting.  He  was  sitting  with  his  child  on  his  knee,  and 
his  wife’s  hand  in  his.  Both  looked  thoughtful  and  serious, 
and  traces  of  tears  were  on  their  cheeks. 

“Yes,  Eliza,”  said  George,  “I  know  all  you  say  is  true. 
You  are  a  good  child, — a  great  deal  better  than  I  am;  and 
I  will  try  to  do  as  you  say.  I’ll  try  to  act  worthy  of  a  free 
man.  I’ll  try  to  feel  like  a  Christian.  God  Almighty  knows 
that  I’ve  meant  to  do  well, — tried  hard  to  do  well, — when 
everything  has  been  against  me;  and  now  I’ll  forget  all  the 
past,  and  put  away  every  hard  and  bitter  feeling,  and  read 
my  Bible,  and  learn  to  be  a  good  man.” 

“  And  when  we  get  to  Canada,”  said  Eliza,  “  I  can  help 
you.  I  can  do  dressmaking  very  well;  and  I  understand 
fine  washing  and  ironing;  and  between  us  w'e  can  find  some¬ 
thing  to  live  on.” 

“  Yes,  Eliza,  so  long  as  we  have  each  other  and  our  boy. 
Oh,  Eliza,  if  these  people  only  knew  what  a  blessing  it  is  for 
a  man  to  feel  that  his  wife  and  child  belong  to  him!  I’ve  often 
wondered  to  see  men  that  could  call  their  wives  and  chil¬ 
dren  their  own ,  fretting  and  worrying  about  anything  else* 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY.  hSO 

Why,  I  feel  rich  and  strong,  though  we  have  nothing  but 
our  bare  hands.  I  feel  as  if  I  could  scarcely  ask  God  for  any 
more.  Yes,  though  Fve  worked  hard  every  day  till  I  am 
twenty-five  years  old,  and  have  not  a  cent  of  money,  nor  a 
roof  to  cover  me,  nor  a  spot  of  land  to  call  my  own,  yet,  if 
they  will  only  let  me  alone  now,  I  will  be  satisfied, — thank¬ 
ful;  I  will  work,  and  send  back  the  money  for  you  and  my 
boy.  As  to  my  old  master,  he  has  been  paid  five  times  over 
for  all  he  ever  spent  for  me.  I  don’t  owe  him  anything.” 

“  But  yet  we  are  not  quite  out  of  danger,”  said  Eliza, 
“  we  are  not  yet  in  Canada.” 

“  True,”  said  George,  “  but  it  seems  as  if  I  smelt  the  free 
air,  and  it  makes  me  strong.” 

At  this  moment  voices  were  heard  in  the  outer  apartment 
in  earnest  conversation,  and  very  soon  a  rap  was  heard  on 
the  door.  Eliza  started  and  opened  it. 

Simeon  Halliday  was  there,  and  with  him  a  Quaker 
brother  whom  he  introduced  as  Phineas  Fletcher.  Phineas 
was  tall  and  lathy,  red-haired,  with  an  expression  of  great 
acuteness  and  shrewdness  in  his  face.  He  had  not  the  placid, 
quiet,  unworldly  air  of  Simeon  Halliday;  on  the  contrary, 
a  particularly  wide-awake  and  an  fait  appearance,  like  a 
man  who  rather  prides  himself  on  knowing" what  he  is  about, 
and  keeping  a  bright  lookout  ahead;  peculiarities  which 
sorted  rather  oddly  with  his  broad  brim  and  formal  phrase¬ 
ology. 

“  Our  friend  Phineas  hath  discovered  something  of  impor¬ 
tance  to  the  interests  of  thee  and  thy  party,  George,”  said 
Simeon;  “  it  were  well  for  thee  to  hear  it.” 

“  That  I  have,”  said  Phineas,  “  and  it  shows  the  use  of  a 
man’s  always  sleeping  with  one  ear  open,  in  certain  places, 
as  I’ve  always  said.  Last  night  I  stopped  at  a  little  lone 
tavern  back  on  the  road.  Thee  remembers  the  place,  Simeon, 
where  we  sold  some  apples  last  year  to  that  fat  woman  with 
the  great  earrings.  Well,  I  was  tired  with  hard  driving; 
and,  after  my  supper,  I  stretched  myself  down  on  a  pile  of 
bags  in  the  corner  and  pulled  a  buffalo  over  me,  to  wait  till 
my  bed  was  ready;  and  what  does  I  do  but  get  fast  asleep.” 

“With  one  ear  open,  Phineas?”  said  Simeon  quietly. 

“No;  I  slept,  ears  and  all,  for  an  hour  or  two,  for  I  was 
pretty  well  tired;  but  when  I  came  to  myself  a  little,  I  found 
that  there  were  some  men  in  the  room,  sitting  round  a  table, 
drinking  and  talking;  and  I  thought  before  I  made  much 


190  UNCLJfi  TOM'S  CAE  IK  ;  OK, 

muster,  Fd  just  see  what  they  were  up  to,  especially  as  I 
heard  them  say  something  about  the  Quakers.  ‘  So/  says 
one,  ‘  they  are  up  in  the  Quaker  settlement,  no  doubt/  says 
he.  Then  I  listened  with  both  ears,  and  I  found  that  they 
were  talking  about  this  very  party.  So  I  lay  and  heard  them 
lay  off  all  their  plans.  This  young  man,  they  said,  was  to 
be  sent  back  to  Kentucky  to  his  master,  who  was  going  to 
make  an  example  of  him,  to  keep  all  niggers  from  running 
away;  and  his  wife  two  of  them  were  going  to  run  down  to 
New  Orleans  to  sell,  on  their  own  account,  and  they  calcu¬ 
lated  to  get  sixteen  or  eighteen  hundred  dollars  for  her; 
and  the  child,  they  said,  was  going  to  a  trader  who  had 
bought  him;  and  then  there  was  the  boy  Jim,  and  his  mother, 
they  were  to  go  back  to  their  masters  in  Kentucky.  They 
said  that  there  were  two  constables  in  a  town  a  little  piece 
ahead,  who  would  go  in  writh  ’em  to  get  ’em  taken  up,  and 
the  young  woman  was  to  be  taken  before  a  judge;  and  one  of 
the  fellows,  who  is  small  and  smooth-spoken,  wras  to  swear  to 
her  for  his  property,  and  get  her  delivered  over  to  him  to 
take  South.  They’ve  got  a  right  notion  of  the  track  we  are 
going  to-night;  and  they’ll  be  down  after  us,  six  or  eight 
strong.  So,  now,  what’s  to  be  done?” 

The  group  that  stood  in  various  attitudes,  after  this  com¬ 
munication,  was  worthy  of  a  painter.  Rachel  Halliday,  who 
had  taken  her  hands  out  of  a  batch  of  biscuit  to  hear  the 
news,  stood  with  them  upraised  and  floury,  and  with  a  face 
of  the  deepest  concern.  Simeon  looked  profoundly  thought¬ 
ful;  Eliza  had  thrown  her  arms  around  her  husband  and 
was  looking  up  to  him.  George  stood  with  clenched  hands 
and  glowing  eyes,  and  looking  as  any  other  man  might  look 
whose  wife  was  to  be  sold  at  auction,  and  son  sent  to  a 
trader,  all  under  the  shelter  of  a  Christian  nation’s  laws. 

“  What  shall  we  do,  George?”  said  Eliza  faintly. 

“  I  knowr  what  I  shall  do,”  said  George,  as  he  stepped  into 
the  little  room  and  began  examining  his  pistols. 

“  Ay,  ay,”  said  Phineas,  nodding  his  head  to  Simeon, 
“  thou  seest,  Simeon,  how  it  will  work.” 

"  “I  see,”  said  Simeon,  sighing;  “I  pray  it  come  not  to 
that.” 

“  I  don’t  want  to  involve  anyone  with  or  for  me,”  said 
George.  “  If  you  will  lend  me  your  vehicle  and  direct  me, 
I  will  drive  alone  to  the  next  stand.  Jim  is  a  giant  in 
strength,  and  brave  as  death  and  despair,  and  so  am  L” 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY. 


19! 


“  Ah,  well,  friend,”  said  Phineas,  “  but  thee’ll  need  a  drive? 
for  all  that.  Thee’s  quite  welcome  to  do  all  the  fighting, 
thee  knows;  but  I  know  a  thing  or  two  about  the  road  that 
thee  doesn’t.” 

“  But  I  don’t  want  to  involve  you,”  said  George. 

“  Involve!”  said  Phineas,  with  a  curious  and  keen  expres¬ 
sion  of  face.  “  When  thee  does  involve  me,  please  to  let  me 
know.” 

“  Phineas  is  a  wise  and  skillful  man,”  said  Simeon.  “  Thee 
does  well,  George,  to  abide  by  his  judgment;  and,”  he  added, 
laying  his  hand  kindly  on  George’s  shoulder  and  pointing 
to  the  pistols,  “  be  not  over  hasty  with  these,— young  biood 
is  hot.” 

“  I  will  attack  no  man,”  said  George.  “  All  I  ask  of  this 
country  is  to  be  let  alone,  and  I  will  go  peaceably;  but,” — - 
he  paused,  and  his  brow  darkened  and  his  face  worked,— 
“  I’ve  had  a  sister  sold  in  that  New  Orleans  market.  I  know 
what  they  are  sold  for;  and  am  I  going  to  stand  by  and  see 
them  take  my  wife  and  sell  her,  when  God  has  given  me  a 
pair  of  strong  arms  to  defend  her?  No;  God  help  me!  I’ll 
fight  to  the  last  breath  before  they  shall  take  my  wife  and 
son.  Can  you  blame  me?” 

“  Mortal  man  cannot  blame  thee,  George.  Flesh  and  blood 
could  not  do  otherwise,”  said  Simeon.  “  ‘  Woe  unto  the  world 
because  of  offenses,  but  woe  unto  them  through  whom  the 
offense  cometh.’  ” 

“  Would  not  even  you,  sir,  do  the  same  in  my  place?  ” 

“  I  pray  that  I  be  not  tried,”  said  Simeon;  “  the  flesh  is 
weak.” 

“  I  think  my  flesh  would  be  pretty  tolerable  strong  in  such 
a  case,”  said  Phineas,  stretching  out  a  pair  of  arms  like  the 
sails  of  a  wind-mill.  “  I  an’t  sure,  friend  George,  that  I 
shouldn’t  hold  a  fellow  for  thee  if  thee  had  any  accounts  to 
settle  with  him.” 

“  If  man  should  ever  resist  evil,”  said  Simeon,  “  them 
George  should  feel  free  to  do  it  now:  but  the  leaders  of  our 
people  taught  a  more  excellent  way;  for  the  wrath  of  man 
worketh  not  the  righteousness  of  God;  but  it  goes  sorely 
against  the  corrupt  will  of  man,  and  none  can  receive  it 
save  they  to  whom  it  is  given.  Let  us  pray  the  Lord  that  wt 
be  not  tempted.” 

“  And  so  I  do,”  said  Phineas,  “  but  if  we  are  tempted  to# 

Ijiuch— why,  let  them  look  out,  that’s  all,” 


102 


UNCLE  tom’s  cabin;  OB, 

“  It's  quite  plain  thee  wasn’t  born  a  Friend,”  said  Simeon, 
smiling.  “  The  old  nature  hath  its  way  in  thee  pretty  strong 
as  yet.” 

To  tell  the  truth,  Phineas  had  been  a  hearty,  two-fisted 
backwoodsman,  a  vigorous  hunter,  and  a  dead  shot  at  a 
buck;  but  having  wooed  a  pretty  Quakeress,  had  been  moved 
by  the  power  of  her  charms  to  join  the  society  in  his  neigh¬ 
borhood,  and  though  he  was  an  honest,  sober,  and  efficient 
member,  and  nothing  particular  could  be  alleged  against 
him,  yet  the  more  spiritual  among  them  could  not  but  dis¬ 
cern  an  exceeding  lack  of  savor  in  his  developments. 

“Friend  Phineas  will  ever  have  ways  of  his  own,”  said 
Rachel  Halliday,  smiling;  “  but  we  all  think  that  his  heart 
is  in  the  right  place,  after  all.” 

“  Well,”  said  George,  “  isn't  it  best  that  we  hasten  our 
flight.” 

“I  got  up  at  four  o'clock  and  came  on  with  all  speed, 
full  two  or  three  hours  ahead  of  them,  if  they  start  at  the 
time  they  planned.  It  isn’t  safe  to  start  till  dark  at  any  rate; 
for  there  are  some  evil  persons  in  the  villages  ahead,  that 
might  be  disposed  to  meddle  with  us,  if  they  saw  our  wagon, 
and  that  would  delay  us  more  than  the  waiting;  but  in  two 
hours  I  think  we  may  venture.  I  will  go  over  to  Michael 
Cross  and  engage  him  to  come  behind  on  his  swift  nag,  and 
keep  a  bright  lookout  on  the  road,  and  warn  us  if  any  com¬ 
pany  of  men  come  on.  Michael  keeps  a  horse  that  can  soon 
get  ahead  of  most  other  horses;  and  he  could  shoot  ahead  and 
let  us  know,  if  there  were  any  danger.  I  am  going  out  now 
to  warn  Jim  and  the  old  woman  to  be  in  readiness,  and  see 
about  the  horse.  We  have  a  pretty  fair  start,  and  stand  a 
good  chance  to  get  to  the  stand  before  they  can  come  up 
with  us.  So,  have  good  courage,  friend  George;  this  isn’t 
the  first  ugly  scrape  that  I’ve  been  in  with  thy  people,”  said 
Phineas,  as  he  closed  the  door. 

“  Phineas  is  pretty  shrewd,”  said  Simeon.  “  He  will  do 
the  best  that  can  be  done  for  thee,  George.” 

“  All  I  am  sorry  for,”  said  George,  “  is  the  risk  to  you.” 

“  Thee’ll  much  oblige  us,  friend  George,  to  say  no  more 
fribout  that.  What  we  do  we  are  conscience-bound  to  do;  we 
can  do  no  other  way.  And,  now,  mother,”  said  he,  turning 
to  Rachel,  “  hurry  thy  preparations  for  these  friends,  for 
me  must  not  send  them  away  fasting.” 

And  while  Rachel  and  her  children  were  busy  making 


LI FEy^MONG  ■  THE  LOWLY.  (If  8 

eorn-ea,Ke,  and  cooking  ham  and  chicken,  and  hurrying  on  ike 
et  ceteras  of  the  evening  meal.,  George  and  his  wife  sat  in 
their  little  room,  with  their  arms  folded  about  each  other 
in  such  talk  as  husband  and  wife  have  when  they  know  that 
a  few  hours  may  part  them  forever. 

“Eliza,”  said  George,  “people  that  have  friends,  and 
houses,  and  lands,  and  money,  and  all  those  things,  canyt 
love  as  we  do,  who  have  nothing  but  each  other.  Till  I 
knew  you,  Eliza,  no  creature  ever  had  loved  me  but  my  poor 
heart-broken  mother  and  sister.  I  saw  poor  Emily  that 
morning  the  trader  carried  her  off.  She  came  to  the  corner 
where  I  was  lying  asleep,  and  said,  ‘Poor  George,  your  last 
friend  is  going.  What  will  become  of  you,  poor  boy?  ’  And 
I  got  up  and  threw  my  arm  round  her,  and  cried  and  sobbed, 
and  she  cried  too;  and  those  were  the  last  kind  words  I  got 
for  ten  long  years;  and  my  heart  all  withered  up,  and  felt 
as  dry  as  ashes  till  I  met  you.  And  your  loving  me, — why 
it  was  almost  like  raising  one  from  the  dead!  Pve  been  a 
new  man  ever  since!  And  now,  Eliza,  Ill  give  my  last 
drop  of  blood,  but  they  shall  not  take  you  from  me.  Who¬ 
ever  gets  you  must  walk  over  my  dead  body.” 

“  0  Lord,  have  mercy!  ”  said  Eliza,  sobbing.  “If  he  will 
only  let  us  get  out  of  this  countrv  together,  that  is  all  we 
ask.” 

“  Is  God  on  their  side?  ”  said  George,  speaking  less  to  his 
wife  than  pouring  out  his  own  bitter  thoughts.  “  Does  he 
see  all  they  do?  Why  does  he  let  such  things  happen?  And 
they  tell  us  that  the  Bible  is  on  their  side;  certainly  all  the 
power  is.  They  are  rich,  and  healthy,  and  happy;  they  are 
members  of  churches,  expecting  to  go  to  heaven;  and  they 
get  along  so  easy  in  the  world,  and  have  it  all  their  own  way; 
and  poor,  honest,  faithful  Christians- — Christians  as  good 
or  better  than  they— are  lying  in  the  very  dust  under  their 
feet.  They  buy  ’em  and  sell  ’em,  and  make  trade  of  their 
heart’s  blood,  and  groans  and  tears,— and  God  lets  them.” 

“  Friend  George,”  said  Simeon,  from  the  kitchen,  “  listen 
to  this  Psalm;  it  may  do  thee  good.” 

George  drew  his  seat  near  the  door,  and  Eliza,  wiping  her 
tears,  came  forward  also  to  listen,  while  Simeon  read  al 
follows: 

“  ‘  But  as  for  me,  my  feet  were  almost  gone;  my  steps  had 
well-nigh  slipped.  For  I  was  envious  of  the  foolish  when 
I  saw  the  prosperity  of  the  wicked.  They  are  not  in  trouble! 


194 


UNCLE  TOM’S  CABIN  ;  OK, 

like  other  men,  neither  are  they  plagued  like  other  men. 
Therefore,  pride  compasseth  them  as  a  chain;  violence  cov- 
ereth  them  as  a  garment.  Their  eyes  stand  out  with  fatness; 
they  have  more  than  heart  could  wish.  They  are  corrupt, 
and  speak  wickedly  concerning  oppression;  they  speak  loftily. 
Therefore  his  people  return,  and  the  waters  of  a  full  cup  are 
wrung  out  to  them,  and  they  say,  How  doth  God  know?  and 
is  there  knowledge  in  the  Most  High?*  Is  not  that  the 
way  thee  feels,  George  ?  ** 

“  It  is  so,  indeed/*  said  George, — “  as  well  as  I  could  have 
written  it  myself.** 

“  Then,  hear,**  said  Simeon:  “  ‘  When  I  thought  to  know 
this,  it  was  too  painful  to  me  until  I  went  unto  the  sanctu¬ 
ary  of  God.  Then  understood  I  their  end.  Surely  thou 
didst  set  them  in  slippery  places,  thou  castest  them  down  to 
destruction.  As  a  dream,  when  one  awaketh,  so,  0  Lord, 
when  thou  awakest,  thou  shalt  despise  their  image.  Never¬ 
theless,  I  am  continually  with  thee;  thou  hast  holden  me 
by  my  right  hand.  Thou  shalt  guide  me  by  thy  counsel, 
and  afterward  receive  me  to  glory.  It  is  good  for  me  to 
draw  near  unto  God.  I  have  put  my  trust  in  the  Lord  God.*  ** 

The  words  of  holy  trust,  breathed  by  the  friendly  old  man, 
stole  like  sacred  music  over  the  harassed  and  chafed  spirit  of 
George;  and  after  he  ceased,  he  sat  with  a  gentle  and  sub¬ 
dued  expression  on  his  fine  features. 

“  If  this  world  were  all,  George,**  said  Simeon,  “  thee 
might  indeed  ask,  Where  is  the  Lord?  But  it  is  often  those 
who  have  least  of  all  in  this  life  whom  he  chooseth  for  the 
kingdom.  Put  thy  trust  in  him,  and  no  matter  what  be¬ 
falls  thee  here,  he  will  make  all  right  hereafter.** 

If  these  words  had  been  spoken  by  some  easy,  self-indul¬ 
gent  exhorter,  from  whose  mouth  they  might  have  come 
merely  as  a  pious  and  rhetorical  flourish,  proper  to  be  used  to 
people  in  distress,  perhaps  they  might  not  have  had  much 
effect;  but  coming  from  one  who  daily  and  calmly  risked  fine 
and  imprisonment  for  the  cause  of  God  and  man,  they  had 
a  weight  that  could  not  but  be  felt,  and  both  the  poor,  deso¬ 
late  fugitives  found  calmness  and  strength  breathing  into 
them  from  it. 

And  now  Rachel  took  Eliza’s  hand  kindly  and  led  the  way 
to  the  supper  table.  As  they  were  sitting  down  a  light  tap 
sounded  at  the  door,  and  Ruth  entered. 

“  I  just  ran  she  said,  “  with  these  little  stockings  for 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY, 


195 


the  boy, — three  pair,  nice,  warm  woolen  ones.  It  will  be  so 
cold,  thee  knows,  in  Canada.  Does  thee  keep  up  good  cour¬ 
age,  Eliza?  "  she  added,  tripping  around  to  Eliza's  side  of  the 
table,  and  shaking  her  warmly  by  the  hand,  and  slipping  a 
seed-cake  into  Harry's  hand.  “  I  brought  a  little  parcel  of 
these  for  him,"  she  said,  tugging  at  her  pocket  to  get  out 
the  package.  Children,  thee  knows,  will  always  be  eating." 

“  Oh,  thank  you;  you  are  too  kind,"  said  Eliza. 

“  Come,  Euth,  sit  down  to  supper,"  said  Eachel. 

“  I  couldn't  anyway.  I  left  John  with  the  baby,  and  some 
biscuits  in  the  oven;  and  I  can't  stay  a  moment,  else  John 
will  burn  up  all  the  biscuits,  and  give  the  baby  all  the  sugar 
in  the  bowl.  That's  the  way  he  does,"  said  the  little  Qua¬ 
keress,  laughing.  “  So,  good-by,  Eliza;  good-by,  George;  the 
Lord  grant  thee  a  safe  journey; "  and  with  a  few  tripping 
steps,  Euth  was  out  of  the  apartment. 

A  little  while  after  supper  a  large  covered  wagon  drew 
up  before  the  door;  the  night  was  clear  starlight;  and 
Phineas  jumped  briskly  down  from  his  seat  to  arrange  his 
passengers.  George  walked  out  of  the  door,  with  his  child 
on  one  arm  and  his  wife  on  the  other.  His  step  was  firm, 
his  face  settled  and  resolute.  Eachel  and  Simeon  came  out 
after  them. 

“  You  get  out  a  moment,"  said  Phineas  to  those  inside, 
“  and  let  me  fix  the  back  of  the  wagon,  there,  for  the  women¬ 
folks  and  the  boy." 

“  Here  are  the  two  buffaloes,"  said  Eachel.  “  Make  the 
seats  as  comfortable  as  may  be;  it's  hard  riding  all  night." 

Jim  came  out  first,  and  carefully  assisted  his  old  mother, 
who  clung  to  his  arm,  and  looked  anxiously  about,  as  if  she 
expected  the  pursuer  every  moment. 

“  Jim,  are  your  pistols  all  in  order?"  said  George,  in  a 
low,  firm  voice. 

“  Yes,  indeed,"  said  Jim. 

“  And  you've  no  doubt  what  you  shall  do  if  they  come?  " 

“  I  rather  think  I  haven't,"  said  Jim,  throwing  open  his 
broad  chest,  and  taking  a  deep  breath.  “  Do  you  think  I'll 
let  them  get  mother  again?  " 

During  this  brief  colloquy  Eliza  had  been  taking  her  leave 
of  her  kind  friend,  Eachel,  and  was  handed  into  the  carriage 
by  Simeon,  and,  creeping  into  the  back  part  with  her  boy, 
sat  down  among  the  buffalo-skins.  The  old  woman  was  next 
handed  in  and  seated,  and  George  and  Jim  placed  on  a 


196  UNCLE  tom’s  cabin;  oe, 

rough  board  seat  in  front  of  them,  and  Phineas  mounted  in 
front. 

“  Farewell,  my  friends!  ”  said  Simeon  from  without. 

“  God  bless  you!  ”  answered  all,  from  within. 

And  the  wagon  drove  oft*,  rattling  and  jolting  over  the 
frozen  road. 

There  was  no  opportunity  for  conversation,  on  account  of 
the  roughness  of  the  way  and  the  noise  of  the  wheels.  The 
vehicle,  therefore,  rumbled  on,  through  long,  dark  stretches 
of  woodland, —over  wide,  dreary  plains, — up  hills,  and  down 
valleys, — and  on,  on,  on  they  jogged,  hour  after  hour.  The 
child  soon  fell  asleep,  and  lay  heavily  in  his  mother’s  lap. 
The  poor,  frightened  old  woman  at  last  forgot  her  fears; 
and  even  Eliza,  as  the  night  waned,  found  all  her  anxieties 
insufficient  to  keep  her  eyes  from  closing.  Phineas  seemed, 
on  the  wdiole,  the  briskest  of  the  company,  and  beguiled  his 
long  drive  with  whistling  certain  very  unquaker-like  songs, 
as  he  went  on. 

But  about  three  o’clock  George’s  ear  caught  the  hasty  and 
decided  click  of  a  horse’s  hoof  coming  behind  them  at  some 
distance,  and  jogged  Phineas  by  the  elbow.  Phineas  pulled 
up  his  horses,  and  listened. 

“  That  must  be  Michael,”  he  said;  “  I  think  I  know  the 
sound  of  his  gallop;  ”  and  he  rose  up  and  stretched  his  head 
anxiously  back  over  the  road. 

A  man  riding  in  hot  haste  was  now  dimly  descried  at  the 
top  of  a  distant  hill. 

“  There  he  is,  I  do  believe!”  said  Phineas.  George  and 
Jim  both  sprang  out  of  the  wragon  before  they'  knew  what 
they  were  doing.  All  stood  intensely  silent,  with  their  faces 
turned  toward  the  expected  messenger.  On  he  came.  Now 
he  went  down  into  a  valley,  where  he  could  not  see  him;  but 
they  heard  the  sharp,  hasty  tramp,  rising  nearer  and  nearer; 
at  last  they  saw  him  emerge  on  the  top  of  an  eminence, 
within  hail. 

“  Yes,  that’s  Michael!  ”  said  Phineas;  and  raising  his  voice, 
—“Halloa,  there,  Michael!” 

“  Phineas,  is  that  thee  ?  ” 

“Yes;  what  news — they  coming?  ” 

“  Right  on  behind,  eight  or  ten  of  them,  hot  with  brandy, 
swearing  and  foaming  like  so  many  wolves.” 

And,  just  as  he  spoke,  a  breeze  brought  the  faint  sound  of 
galloping  horsemen  toward  them. 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY.  197 

“  In  with  you, — quick,  boys,  in !  ”  said  Phineas.  “  If  you 
must  fight,  wait  till  I  get  you  a  piece  ahead.”  And,  with 
the  word,  both  jumped  in,  and  Phineas  lashed  the  horses 
to  a  run,  the  horseman  keeping  close  behind  them.  The 
wagon  rattled,  jumped,  almost  flew,  over  the  frozen  ground; 
but  plainer,  and  still  plainer,  came  the  noise  of  pursuing 
horsemen  behind.  The  women  heard  it,  and  looking  anx¬ 
iously  out,  saw,  far  in  the  rear,  on  the  brow  of  a  distant  hill, 
a  party  of  men  looming  up  against  the  red-streaked  sky  of 
early  dawn.  Another  hill,  and  their  pursuers  had  evidently 
caught  sight  of  their  wagon,  whose  white,  cloth-covered  top 
made  it  conspicuous  at  some  distance,  and  a  loud  yell  of  bru¬ 
tal  triumph  came  forward  on  the  wind.  Eliza  sickened,  and 
strained  her  child  closer  to  her  bosom;  the  old  woman  prayed 
and  groaned,  and  George  and  Jim  clenched  their  pistols  with 
the  grasp  of  despair.  The  pursuers  gained  on  them  fast;  the 
carriage  made  a  sudden  turn,  and  brought  them  near  a  ledge 
of  a  steep  overhanging  rock  that  rose  in  an  isolated  ridge 
or  clump  in  a  large  lot,  which  was,  all  around  it,  quite  clear 
and  smooth.  This  isolated  pile,  or  range  of  rocks,  rose  up 
black  and  heavy  against  the  brightening  sky,  and  seemed 
to  promise  shelter  and  concealment.  It  was  a  place  well- 
known  to  Phineas,  who  had  been  familiar  with  the  spot  in 
his  hunting  days;  and  it  was  to  gain  this  point  he  had  been 
racing  his  horses. 

“  Now  for  it!  ”  said  he,  suddenly  checking  his  horses,  and 
springing  from  his  seat  to  the  ground.  “  Out  with  you,  in  a 
twinkling,  every  one,  and  up  into  these  rocks  with  me.  Mi¬ 
chael,  thee  tie  thy  horse  to  the  wagon,  and  drive  ahead  to 
Amariah’s  and  get  him  and  his  boys  to  come  back  and  talk 
to  these  fellows.” 

In  a  twinkling  they  were  all  out  of  the  carriage. 

“  There,”  said  Phineas,  catching  up  Harry,  “  you  each 
of  you,  see  to  the  women;  and  run,  now ,  if  you  ever  did  run!  ” 

They  needed  no  exhortation.  Quicker  than  we  can  say 
it  the  whole  party  were  over  the  fence,  making  with  all  speed 
for  the  rocks,  while  Michael,  throwing  himself  from  his 
horse,  and  fastening  the  bridle  to  the  wagon,  began  driving 
it  rapidly  away. 

“  Come  ahead!  ”  said  Phineas,  as  they  reached  the  rocks, 
and  saw,  in  the  mingled  starlight  and  dawn,  the  traces  of  a 
?rude  but  plainly-marked  footpath  leading  up  among  them; 
*  this  is  one  of  our  old  hunting  dens.  Come  up!  ” 


198 


tJNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN;  OR, 

Phineas  went  before,  springing  up  the  rocks  like  a  goat, 
with  the  boy  in  his  arms.  Jim  came  second,  bearing  his 
trembling  old  mother  over  his  shoulder,  and  George  and 
Eliza  brought  up  the  rear.  The  party  of  horsemen  came  up 
to  the  fence,  and,  with  mingled  shouts  and  oaths,  were  dis¬ 
mounting  to  prepare  to  follow  them.  A  few  moments* 
scrambling  brought  them  to  the  top  of  the  ledge;  the  path 
then  passed  between  a  narrow  defile,  where  only  one  could 
walk  at  a  time,  till  suddenly  they  came  to  a  rift  or  chasm 
more  than  a  yard  in  breadth,  and  beyond  which  lay  a  pile  of 
rocks,  separate  from  the  rest  of  the  ledge,  standing  full 
thirty  feet  high,  with  its  sides  steep  and  perpendicular  as 
those  of  a  castle.  Phineas  easily  leaped  the  chasm,  and  set 
down  the  boy  on  a  smooth,  flat  platform  of  crisp  white  moss, 
that  covered  the  top  of  the  rock. 

“  Over  with  you!  ”  he  called;  “  spring,  now,  once,  for  your 
lives!  ”  said  he,  as  one  after  another  sprang  across.  Several 
fragments  of  loose  stone  formed  a  kind  of  breastwork,  which 
sheltered  their  position  from  the  observation  of  those  below. 

“  Well,  here  we  all  are/*  said  Phineas,  peeping  over  the 
stone  breastwork  to  watch  the  assailants,  who  were  coming 
tumultuously  up  under  the  rocks.  “  Let  'em  get  us,  if  they 
can.  Whoever  comes  here  has  to  walk  single  file  between 
those  two  rocks,  in  fair  range  of  your  pistols,  boys,  d’ye 
see?” 

“  I  do  see,”  said  George,  “  and  now,  as  this  matter  is  ours, 
let  us  take  all  the  risk,  and  do  all  the  fighting.” 

“  Thee’s  quite  welcome  to  do  the  fighting,  George,”  said 
Phineas,  chewing  some  checkerberry-leaves  as  he  spoke; 
“  but  I  may  have  the  fun  of  looking  on,  I  suppose.  But  see, 
these  fellers  are  kinder  debating  down  there,  and  looking 
up,  like  hens  when  they  are  going  to  fly  up  on  to  the  roost. 
Hadn’t  thee  better  give  ’em  a  word  of  advice  before  they  come 
up,  just  to  tell  ’em  handsomely  they’ll  be  shot  if  they  do?” 

The  party  beneath,  now  more  apparent  in  the  light  of  the 
dawn,  consisted  of  our  old  acquaintances,  Tom  Loker  and 
Marks,  with  two  constables,  and  a  posse  consisting  of  such 
rowdies  at  the  last  tavern  as  could  be  engaged  by  a  little 
brandy  to  go  and  help  the  fun  of  trapping  a  set  of  niggers. 

“  Well,  Tom,  yer  coons  are  farly  treed,”  said  one. 

“  Yes,  I  see  ’em  go  up  right  here/’  said  Tom,  “  and  here’s 
a  path.  I’m  for  going  right  up.  They  can’t  jump  down  in  $ 
hurry,  and  it  won’t  take  long  to  ferret  ’em  out.” 


LIFE  AMONG  Til  E  LOWLY.  ,  189 

“  But,  Tom,  they  might  fire  at  us  from  behind  the  rocks,” 
said  Marks.  “  That  would  be  ugly,  you  know.” 

‘'Ugh!”  said  Tom,  with  a  sneer.  “ Always  for  saving 
your  skin,  Marks!  No  danger!  niggers  are  too  plaguey 
scared!  ” 

“  I  don’t  know  why  I  shouldn't  save  my  skin,”  said  Marks. 
“  It’s  the  best  I’ve  got;  and  niggers  do  fight  like  the  devil, 
sometimes.” 

At  this  moment  George  appeared  on  the  top  of  a  rock 
above  them,  and,  speaking  in  a  calm,  clear  voice,  said: 

“  Gentlemen,  who  are  you,  down  there,  and  what  do  you 
want  ?  ” 

“  W e  want  a  party  of  runaway  niggers,”  said  Tom  Loker. 
“  One  George  Harris,  and  Eliza  Harris,  and  their  son,  and 
Jim  Selden,  and  an  old  woman.  We’ve  got  the  officers  here, 
and  a  warrant  to  take  ’em;  and  we’re  going  to  have  ’em  too. 
D’ye  hear?  An’t  you  George  Harris,  that  belongs  to  Mr. 
Harris,  of  Shelby  County,  Kentucky?” 

“  I  am  George  Harris.  A  Mr.  Harris  of  Kentucky  did  call 
me  his  property.  But  now  I’m  a  free  man,  standing  on  God’s 
free  soil;  and  my  wife  and  my  child  I  claim  as  mine.  Jim  and 
his  mother  are  here.  We  have  arms  to  defend  ourselves,  and 
we  mean  to  do  it.  You  can  come  up,  if  you  like;  but  the 
first  one  of  you  that  comes  within  the  range  of  our  bullets 
is  a  dead  man,  and  the  next,  and  the  next;  and  so  on  till  the 
last.” 

“  Oh,  come,  come!  ”  said  a  short,  puffy  man  stepping  for¬ 
ward,  and  blowing  his  nose  as  he  did  so.  “  Young  man,  this 
an’t  no  kind  of  talk  at  all  for  you.  You  see  we’re  officers  of 
justice.  We’ve  got  the  law  on  our  side,  and  the  power,  and 
so  forth;  so  you’d  better  give  up  peaceably,  you  see;  for  you’ll 
certainly  have  to  give  up  at  last.” 

“  I  know  very  well  that  you’ve  got  the  law  on  your  side, 
and  the  power,”  said  George  bitterly.  “  You  mean  to  take 
my  wife  to  sell  in  New  Orleans,  and  put  my  boy  like  a  calf 
in  a  trader’s  pen,  and  send  Jim’s  old  mother  to  the  brute 
that  whipped  and  abused  her  before,  because  he  couldn’t 
abuse  her  son.  You  want  to  send  Jim  and  me  back  to  be 
whipped  and  tortured  and  ground  down  under  the  heels  of 
them  that  you  call  masters;  and  your  laws  will  bear  you  out 
in  it, — more  shame  for  you  and  them!  but  you  haven’t  got 
us.  We  don’t  own  your  laws;  we  don’t  own  your  country; 
we  stand  here  as  free,  under  God’s  sky,  as  you  are;  and,  by 


200  UNCLE  tom’s  cabin;  OB, 

the  great  God  that  made  us,  we’ll  fight  for  our  liberty  till 
we  die.” 

George  stood  out  in  fair  sight,  on  the  top  of  the  rock,  as  he 
made  his  declaration  of  independence;  the  glow  of  dawn  gave 
a  flush  to  his  swarthy  cheek,  and  bitter  indignation  and  de¬ 
spair  gave  fire  to  his  dark  eye;  and,  as  if  appealing  from  man 
to  the  justice  of  God,  he  raised  his  hand  to  heaven  as  he 
spoke. 

If  it  had  been  only  a  Hungarian  youth,  now,  bravely  de¬ 
fending  in  some  mountain  fastness  the  retreat  of  fugitives 
escaping  from  Austria  into  America,  this  would  have  been 
sublime  heroism;  but  as  it  was  a  youth  of  African  descent, 
defending  the  retreat  of  fugitives  through  America  into 
Canada,  of  course  we  are  too  well  instructed  and  patriotic 
to  see  any  heroism  in  it;  and  if  any  of  our  readers  do,  they 
must  do  it  on  their  o wn  private  responsibility.  When  de¬ 
spairing  Hungarian  fugitives  make  their  way,  against  all  the 
search-warrants  and  authorities  of  their  lawful  government, 
to  America,  press  and  political  cabinet  ring  with  applause 
and  welcome.  When  despairing  African  fugitives  do  the 
same  thing, — -it  is — what  is  it? 

Be  it  as  it  may,  it  is  certain  that  the  attitude,  eye,  voice, 
manner,  of  the  speaker  for  a  moment  struck  the  party  below 
to  silence.  There  is  something  in  boldness  and  determination 
that  for  a  time  hushes  even  the  rudest  nature.  Marks  was 
the  only  one  who  remained  wholly  untouched.  He  was  de¬ 
liberately  cocking  his  pistol,  and  in  the  momentary  silence 
that  followed  George’s  speech,  he  fired  at  him. 

“  Ye  see  ye  get  jist  as  much  for  him  dead  as  alive  in 
Kentucky,”  he  said  coolly,  as  he  wiped  his  pistol  on  his  coat 
sleeve. 

George  sprang  backward, — Eliza  uttered  a  shriek, — -the 
ball  had  passed  close  to  his  hair,  had  nearly  grazed  the 
cheek  of  his  wife,  and  struck  in  the  tree  above. 

“  It’s  nothing,  Eliza,”  said  George  quickly. 

“  Thee’d  better  keep  out  of  sight,  with  thy  speechifying,” 
said  Phineas;  “  they’re  mean  scamps.” 

“Now,  Jim,”  said  George,  “look  that  your  pistols  are 
all  right,  and  watch  that  pass  with  me.  The  first  man  that 
shows  himself  I  fire  at;  you  take  the  second,  and  so  on.  It 
won’t  do,  you  know,  to  waste  two  shots  on  one.” 

“  But  what  if  you  don’t  hit?  ” 

“  I  shall  hit,”  said  George  coolly. 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY.  201 

“  Good!  now,  there’s  stuff  in  that  fellow,”  muttered  Phin- 
eas,  between  his  teeth. 

The  party  below,  after  Marks  had  fired,  stood  for  a  mo¬ 
ment  rather  undecided. 

“  I  think  you  must  have  hit  some  on  ’em,”  said  one  of 
the  men.  “  I  heard  a  squeal.” 

“  I’m  going  right  up,  for  one,”  said  Tom.  “X  never  was 
afraid  of  niggers,  and  I  an’t  going  to  be  now.  Who  goes 
after?  ”  he  said,  springing  up  the  rocks. 

George  heard  the  words  distinctly.  He  drew  up  his  pis¬ 
tol,  examined  it,  pointed  it  toward  that  point  in  the  defile 
where  the  first  man  would  appear. 

One  of  the  most  courageous  of  the  party  followed  Tom, 
and  the  way  being  thus  made  the  whole  party  began  pushing 
up  the  rock,— the  hindermost  pushing  the  front  ones  faster 
than  they  would  have  gone  of  themselves.  On  they  came, 
and  in  a  moment  the  burly  form  of  Tom  appeared  in  sight, 
almost  at  the  verge  of  the  chasm. 

George  fired, — the  shot  entered  his  side,— but,  though 
wounded,  he  would  not  retreat,  but,  with  a  yell  like  that  of  a 
mad  bull,  he  was  leaping  right  across  the  chasm  into  the 
party. 

“  Friend,”  said  Phineas,  suddenly  stepping  to  the  front, 
and  meeting  him  with  a  push  from  his  long  arms,  “  thee 
isn’t  wanted  here.” 

Down  he  fell  into  the  chasm,  crackling  down  among  the 
trees,  bushes,  logs,  loose  stones,  till  he  lay,  bruised  and 
groaning,  thirty  feet  below.  The  fall  might  have  killed  him, 
'had  it  not  been  broken  and  moderated  by  his  clothes  catch¬ 
ing  in  the  branches  of  a  large  tree;  but  he  came  down  with 
some  force,  however,— more  than  was  at  all  agreeable  and 
convenient. 

“  Lord  help  us,  they  are  perfect  devils!  ”  said  Marks,  head¬ 
ing  the  retreat  down  the  rocks  with  much  more  of  a  will  than 
he  had  joined  the  ascent,  while  all  the  party  came  tumbling 
precipitately  after  him,- — the  fat  constable,  in  particular, 
blowing  and  puffing  in  a  very  energetic  manner. 

“  I  say,  fellers,”  said  Marks,  “  you  jist  go  round  and  pick 
up  Tom,  there,  while  I  run  and  get  on  to  my  horse,  to  go 
back  for  help, — that’s  you;  ”  and,  without  minding  the  hoot- 
ings  and  jeers  of  his  company,  Marks  was  as  good  as  his 
word,  and  was  soon  seen  galloping  away. 

*  Was  ever  such  a  sneaking  varmint?”  said  one  of  the 


202  TOOLS  tom’s  cabin;  or, 

men;  "  to  come  on  his  business,  and  he  clear  out  and  leave  m 
this  yer  way! ” 

“  Well,  we  must  pick  up  that  feller/’  said  another,  “  Cuss 
me  if  I  much  care  whether  he  is  dead  or  alive.” 

The  men,  led  by  the  groans  of  Tom,  scrambled  and 
crackled  through  stamps,  logs,  and  bushes  to  where  that  hero 
lay  groaning  and  swearing  with  alternate  vehemence. 

“  Ye  keep  it  a-going  pretty  loud,  Tom,”  said  one.  “  Ye 
much  hurt?  ” 

“  Don’t  know.  Get  me  up,  can’t  ye?  Blast  that  infernal 
Quaker!  If  it  hadn’t  been  for  him  I’d  ’a’  pitched  some  on 
’em  down  here,  to  see  how  they  liked  it.” 

With  much  labor  and  groaning  the  fallen  hero  was  as¬ 
sisted  to  rise;  and,  with  one  holding  him  up  under  each 
shoulder,  they  got  him  as  far  as  the  horses. 

“  If  you  could  only  get  me  a  mile  back  to  that  ar  tavern. 
Give  me  a  handkerchief  or  something,  to  stuff  into  this  place, 
and  stop  this  infernal  bleeding.” 

George  looked  over  the  rocks  and  saw  them  trying  to  lift 
the  burly  form  of  Tom  into  the  saddle.  After  two  or  three 
ineffectual  attempts,  he  reeled,  and  fell  heavily  to  the 
ground. 

“  Oh,  I  hope  he  isn’t  killed!  ”  said  Eliza,  who,  with  all  the 
party,  stood  watching  the  proceeding. 

“  Why  not?”  said  Phineas;  “  serves  him  right.” 

“  Because,  after  death  comes  the  judgment,”  said  Eliza. 

"  Yes,”  said  the  old  woman,  who  had  been  groaning  and 
praying,  in  her  Methodist  fashion,  during  all  the  encounter, 
“  it’s  an  awful  case  for  the  poor  crittur’s  soul.” 

“  On  my  word,  they’re  leaving  him,  I  do  believe,”  said 
Phineas. 

It  was  true;  after  some  appearance  of  irresolution  and 
consultation,  the  whole  party  got  on  their  horses  and  rode 
away.  When  they  were  quite  out  of  sight  Phineas  began  to 
bestir  himself. 

"Well,  we  must  go  down  and  walk  a  piece,”  he  said.  "I 
told  Michael  to  go  forward  and  bring  help,  and  be  along 
back  here  with  the  wagon;  but  we  shall  have  to  walk  a  piece 
along  the  road,  I  reckon,  to  meet  them.  The  Lord  grant  he 
be  along  soon!  It’s  early  in  the  day;  there  won’t  be  much 
travel  afoot  yet  awhile;  we  an’t  much  more  than  two  miles 
from  our  stopping-place.  If  the  road  hadn’t  been  so  rough 
last  night,  we  could  have  outrun  ’em  entirely.” 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY.  203"' 

As  the  party  neared  the  fence  they  discovered  in  the  dis¬ 
tance.,  along  the  road,  their  own  wagon  coming  back,  ac¬ 
companied  by  some  men  on  horseback. 

“  Well,  now,  there’s  Michael,  and  Stephen,  and  Axnariah,” 
exclaimed  Phineas  joyfully.  “  Now  we  are  made,— as  safe 
as  if  we’d  got  there.” 

“  Well,  do  stop  then,”  said  Eliza,  “  and  do  something  for 
that  poor  man;  he’s  groaning  dreadfully.” 

“  It  would  be  no  more  than  Christian,”  said  George;  “  let’s 
take  him  up  and  carry  him  on.” 

“And  doctor  him  up  among  the  Quakers!”  said  Phin¬ 
eas;  “pretty  well,  that!  Well,  I  don’t  care  if  we  do.  Here, 
let’s  have  a  look  at  him;  ”  and  Phineas,  who,  in  the  course  of 
his  hunting  and  backwoods  life,  had  acquired  some  rude 
experience  of  surgery,  kneeled  down  by  the  wounded  man 
and  began  a  careful  examination  of  his  condition. 

“Marks,”  said  Tom  feebly,  “is  that  you,  Marks?” 

“No;  I  reckon  ’tan’t,  friend,”  said  Phineas.  “  Much 
Marks  cares  for  thee,  if  his  own  skin’s  safe.  He’s  off  long 
ago.” 

“  I  believe  I’m  done  for,”  said  Tom.  “  The  cussed  sneak¬ 
ing  dog,  to  leave  me  to  die  alone!  My  poor  old  mother 
always  told  me  ’t would  be  so.” 

“  La  sakes!  jist  hear  the  poor  crittur.  He’s  got  a  mammy, 
now,”  said  the  old  negress.  “  I  can’t  help  kinder  pitvin’  on 
him.” 

•  “  Softly,  softly;  don’t  thee  snap  and  snarl,  friend,”  said 

Phineas,  as  Tom  winced  and  pushed  his  hand  away.  “  Thee 
has  no  chance  unless  I  stop  the  bleeding.”  And  Phineas 
busied  himself  with  making  some  off-hand  surgical  arrange¬ 
ments  with  his  own  pocket  handkerchief,  and  such  as  could 
be  mustered  in  the  company. 

“You  pushed  me  down  there,”  said  Tom  faintly. 

“  Well,  if  I  hadn’t,  thee  would  have  pushed  us  down,  thee 
sees,”  said  Phineas,  as  he  stooped  to  apply  his  bandage. 
“  There,  there, — let  me  fix  this  bandage.  We  mean  well  to 
thee;  we  bear  no  malice.  Thee  shall  be  taken  to  a  house 
where  they’ll  nurse  thee  first-rate, — as  well  as  thy  own 
mother  could.” 

Tom  groaned  and  shut  his  eyes.  In  men  of  his  class  vigor 
and  resolution  are  entirely  a  physical  matter,  and  ooze  out 
with  the  flowing  of  the  blood;  and  the  gigantic  fellow  really 
looked  piteous  in  his  helplessness. 


104  UNCLE  TOM’S  CABIN  ;  OB, 

The  other  party  now  came  up.  The  seats  were  taken  out 
of  the  wagon.  The  b-uffalo  skins,  doubled  in  fours,  were 
spread  all  along  one  side,  and  four  men  with  great  difficulty 
lifted  the  heavy  form  of  Tom  into  it.  Before  he  was 
gotten  in  he  fainted  entirely.  The  old  negress,  in 
the  abundance  of  her  compassion,  sat  down  on  the  bottom 
and  took  his  head  in  her  lap.  Eliza,  George,  and  Jim  be¬ 
stowed  themselves,  as  well  as  they  could,  in  the  remaining 
space,  and  the  whole  party  set  forward. 

“What  do  you  think  of  him?”  said  George,  who  sat  by 
Phineas,  in  front. 

“  Well,  it’s  only  a  pretty  deep  flesh-wound;  but,  then, 
tumbling  and  scratching  down  that  place  didn't  help  him 
much.  It  has  bled  pretty  freely, — pretty  much  dreaned 
him  out,  courage  and  all,  but  he'll  get  over  it,  and  maybe 
learn  a  thing  or  two  by  it.” 

“  Pm  glad  to  hear  you  say  so,”  said  George.  “  It  would 
always  be  a  heavy  thought  to  me,  if  I'd  caused  his  death,  even 
in  a  just  cause.” 

“Yes,”  said  Phineas,  “killing  is  an  ugly  operation,  any 
way  they'll  fix  it, — man  or  beast.  I've  been  a  great  hunter 
in  my  day,  and  I  tell  thee  I've  seen  a  buck  that  was  shot 
down,  and  a-dying,  look  that  way  on  a  feller  with  his  eye, 
that  it  reely  most  made  a  feller  feel  wicked  for  killing,  on 
him;  and  human  creatures  is  a  more  serious  consideration 
yet,  bein',  as  thy  wife  says,  that  the  judgment  comes  to  'em 
after  death.  So  I  don't  know  as  our  people's  notions  on 
these  matters  is  too  strict;  and,  considerin'  how  I  was  raised, 
1  fell  in  with  them  pretty  considerably.” 

“  What  shall  you  do  with  this  poor  fellow?  ”  said  George. 

“  Oh,  carry  him  along  to  Amariah's.  There's  old  Grand- 
mam  Stephens  there, — Dorcas,  they  call  her,— she's  most 
an  amazin'  nurse.  She  takes  to  nursing  real  natural,  and  an't 
never  better  suited  than  when  she  gets  a  sick  body  to  tend. 
We  may  reckon  on  turning  him  over  to  her  for  a  fortnight 
or  so.” 

A  ride  of  about  an  hour  more  brought  the  party  to  a  neat 
farmhouse,  where  the  weary  travelers  were  received  to  an 
abundant  breakfast.  Tom  Loker  was  soon  carefully  depos¬ 
ited  in  a  much  cleaner  and  softer  bed  than  he  had  ever  been 
in  the  habit  of  occupying.  His  wound  was  carefully  dressed 
and  bandaged,  and  he  lay  languidly  opening  and  shutting 
his  eyes  on  the  white  window-curtains  and  gently  gliding 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY.  205 

figures  of  his  sickroom,  like  a  weary  child.  And  here,  for  the 
present,  we  shall  take  our  leave  of  one  party. 

CHAPTER  XVIIL 

miss  Ophelia’s  experiences  and  opinions. 

Our  friend  Tom,  in  his  own  simple  musings,  often  com¬ 
pared  his  more  fortunate  lot,  in  the  bondage  into  which  he 
was  cast,  with  that  of  Joseph  in  Egypt;  and,  in  fact,  as  time 
went  on  and  he  developed  more  and  more  under  the  eye  of 
his  master,  the  strength  of  the  parallel  increased. 

St.  Clare  was  indolent  and  careless  of  money.  Hitherto 
the  providing  and  marketing  had  been  principally  done  by 
Adolph,  who  was,  to  the  full,  as  careless  and  extravagant  as 
his  master;  and  between  them  both  they  had  carried  on  the 
dispersing  process  with  great  alacrity.  Accustomed  for 
many  years  to  regard  his  master’s  property  as  his  own  care, 
Tom  saw,  with  an  uneasiness  he  could  scarcely  repress,  the 
wasteful  expenditure  of  the  establishment;  and,  in  the  quiet, 
indirect  way  which  his  class  often  acquire,  would  sometimes 
make  his  own  suggestions. 

St.  Clare  at  first  employed  him  occasionally;  but  struck 
with  his  soundness  of  mind  and  good  business  capacity,  he 
confided  in  him  more  and  more,  till  gradually  all  the  market¬ 
ing  and  providing  for  the  family  were  intrusted  to  him. 

“  No,  no,  Adolph!  ”  he  said  one  day,  as  Adolph  was  depre¬ 
cating  the  passing  of  power  out  of  his  hands;  “  let  Tom 
alone.  You  only  understand  what  you  want;  Tom  under¬ 
stands  cost  and  come  to;  and  there  may  be  some  end  to 
money,  by  and  by,  if  we  don’t  let  somebody  do  that.” 

Trusted  to  an  unlimited  extent  by  a  careless  master,  who 
handed  him  a  bill  without  looking  at  it,  and  pocketed  the 
change  without  counting  it,  Tom  had  every  facility  and 
temptation  to  dishonesty;  and  nothing  but  an  impregnable 
simplicity  of  nature,  strengthened  by  Christian  faith,  could 
have  kept  him  from  it.  But  to  that  nature  the  very  un¬ 
bounded  trust  reposed  in  him  was  bond  and  seal  for  the 
most  scrupulous  accuracy. 

With  Adolph  the  case  had  been  different.  Thoughtless 
and  self-indulgent,  and  unrestrained  by  a  master  who  found 
it  easier  to  indulge  than  to  regulate,  he  had  fallen  into  m. 


§06 


UNCLE  tom’s  cabin;  OB, 


absolute  confusion  as  to  meum  and  tuum  with  regard  to  him* 
self  and  his  master,  which  sometimes  troubled  even  St, 
Clare.  His  own  good  sense  taught  him  that  such  a  training 
of  his  servants  was  unjust  and  dangerous.  A  sort  of 
chronic  remorse  went  with  him  everywhere,  although  not 
strong  enough  to  make  any  decided  change  in  his  course; 
and  this  very  remorse  reacted  again  into  indulgence.  He 
passed  lightly  over  the  most  serious  faults,  because  he  told 
himself  that,  if  he  had  done  his  part,  his  dependents  had  not 
fallen  into  them. 

Tom  regarded  his  gay,  airy,  handsome  young  master  with 
an  odd  mixture  of  fealty,  reverence,  and  fatherly  solicitude. 
That  he  never  read  the  Bible;  never  went  to  church;  that  he 
jested  and  made  free  with  any  and  everything  that  came  in 
the  way  of  his  wit;  that  he  spent  his  Sunday  evenings  at  the 
opera  or  theater;  that  he  went  to  wine  parties,  and  clubs, 
and  suppers  oftener  than  was  at  all  expedient, — were  all 
things  that  Tom  could  see  plainly  as  anybody,  and  on  which 
he  based  a  conviction  that  “  Mas’r  wasn’t  a  Christian 
a  conviction,  however,  which  he  would  have  been  very  slow 
to  express  to  anyone  else,  but  on  which  he  founded  many 
prayers,  in  his  own  simple  fashion,  when  he  was  by  himself 
in  his  little  dormitory.  Not  that  Tom  had  not  his  own  way 
of  speaking  his  mind  occasionally,  with  something  of  the 
tact  often  observable  in  his  class;  as,  for  example,  the  very 
day  after  the  Sabbath  we  have  described,  St.  Clare  was  in¬ 
vited  out  to  a  convivial  party  of  choice  spirits,  and  was 
helped  home,  between  one  and  two  o’clock  at  night,  in  a 
condition  when  the  physical  had  decidedly  attained  the 
upper  hand  of  the  intellectual.  Tom  and  Adolph  assisted 
to  get  him  composed  for  the  night,  the  latter  in  high  spirits, 
evidently  regarding  the  matter  as  a  good  joke,  and  laughing 
heartily  at  the  rusticity  of  Tom’s  horror,  who  really  was 
simple  enough  to  lie  awake  most  of  the  rest  of  the  night, 
praying  for  his  young  master. 

“Well,  Tom,  what  are  you  waiting  for?”  said  St.  Clare, 
the  next  day,  as  he  sat  in  his  library  in  dressing-gown  and 
slippers.  St.  Clare  had  just  been  intrusting  Tom  wdth  some 
money,  and  various  commissions.  “  Isn’t  all  right  there, 
Torn?  ”  he  added,  as  Tom  still  stood  waiting. 

“  I’m  ’fraid  not.  mas’r,”  said  Tom,  with  a  grave  face. 

St.  Clare  laid  down  his  paper,  and  set  down  his  coffee-cup, 
and  looked  at  Tom. 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY#  W*$ 

“  Why,  Tom,  what’s  the  case  ?  You  look  as  solemn  as  a 
coffin.’ 

“  i  ieei  very  bad,  mas’r.  1  allays  have  thought  that  mas’r 
would  be  good  to  everybody/’ 

“  Well,  Tom,  haven’t  I  been?  Come,  now,  what  do  you 
want?  There's  something  you  haven't  got,  I  suppose/and 
this  is  the  preface.” 

Mas  r  allays  been  good  to  me.  I  haven't  nothing  to 
complain  of,  on  that  head.  But  there  is  one  that  rnas’r  isn’t 
good  to.” 

Why,  Tom,  what’s  got  into  you?  Speak  out;  what  do 

you  mean !  ” 

“  Last  night,  between  one  and  two,  I  thought  so.  I 
studied  up  on  the  matter  then.  Mas’r  isn’t  good  to  himself .” 

Tom  said  this  with  his  back  to  his  master,  and  his  hand  on 
the  dooi-knob.  St.  Clare  felt  his  face  flush  crimson,  but  he 
laughed. 

“  Oh,  that’s  all,  is  it?  ”  he  said  gayly. 

“  All!  ”  said  Tom,  turning  suddenly  round  and  falling  on 
his  knees.  “  Oh,  my  dear  young  mas’r!  I’m  afraid  it  will 
be  loss  of  all — ah7— body  and  soul.  The  good  Book  says,  4  It 
biteth  like  a  serpent  and  stingeth  like  an  adder!  ’  my  dear 
mas’r!  ” 

Tom's  voice  choked,  and  the  tears  ran  down  his  cheeks. 

“You  poor,  silly  fool!”  said  St.  Clare,  with  tears  in  his 
own  eyes.  “  Get  up,  Tom.  I’m  not  worth  crying  over.” 

But  Tom  wouldn’t  rise,  and  looked  imploring. 

“  Well,  I  won’t  go  to  any  more  of  their  cursed  nonsense, 
Tom,”  said  St.  Clare;  “  on  my  honor,  I  won’t.  I  don’t 
know  why  I  haven’t  stopped  long  ago.  I’ve  always  despised 
it ,  and  myself  for  it,— so  now,  Tom,  wipe  up  your  eyes  and 
go  about  your  errands.  Come,  come,”  he  added,  “  no  bless¬ 
ings.  I’m  not  so  wonderfully  good  nowT,”  he  said,  as  he 
gently  pushed  Tom  to  the  door.  “  There,  I’ll  pledge  my 
honor  to  you,  Tom,  you  don’t  see  me  so  again,”  he  said;  and 
Tom  went  off,  wiping  his  eyes,  with  great  satisfaction. 

“  I’ll  keep  my  faith  with  him,  too,”  said  St.  Clare,  as  he 
closed  the  door. 

And  Sr.  Clare  did  so,— for  gross  sensualism  in  any  form 
was  not  the  peculiar  temptation  of  his  nature. 

But.  all  this  time,  who  shall  detail  the  tribulations  mani¬ 
fold  of  our  friend  Miss  Ophelia,  wTho  had  begun  the  labors 
g)f  a  Southern  housekeeper? 


i08  tjncbib  tom’s  cabin;  or, 

There  is  all  the  difference  in  the  world  in  the  servants  of 
Southern  establishments,  according  to  the  character  and 
capacity  of  the  mistresses  who  have  brought  them  up. 

South  as  well  as  North  there  are  women  who  have  an  ex¬ 
traordinary  talent  for  command  and  tact  in  educating. 
Such  are  enabled,  with  apparent  ease  and  without  severity, 
to  subject  to  their  will  and  bring  into  harmonious  and  sys¬ 
tematic  order  the  various  members  of  their  small  estate,— 
to  regulate  their  peculiarities,  and  so  balance  and  com¬ 
pensate  the  deficiencies  of  one  by  the  excess  of  another  as 
to  produce  a  harmonious  and  orderly  system. 

Such  a  housekeeper  was  Mrs.  Shelby,  whom  we  have  al¬ 
ready  described;  and  such  our  readers  may  remember  to 
have  met  with.  If  they  are  not  common  at  the  South  it  is 
because  they  are  not  common  in  the  world.  They  are  to  be 
found  there  as  often  as  anywhere;  and,  when  existing,  find 
in  that  peculiar  state  of  society  a  brilliant  opportunity  to 
exhibit  their  domestic  talent. 

Such  a  housekeeper  Marie  St.  Clare  was  not,  nor  her 
mother  before  her.  Indolent  and  childish,  unsystematic 
and  improvident,  it  was  not  to  be  expected  that  servants 
trained  under  her  care  should  not  be  so  likewise;  and  she 
had  very  justly  described  to  Miss  Ophelia  the  state  of  confu¬ 
sion  she  would  find  in  the  family,  though  she  had  not 
ascribed  it  to  the  proper  cause. 

The  first  morning  of  her  regency  Miss  Ophelia  was  up  at 
four  o’clock;  and  having  attended  to  all  the  adjustments  of 
her  own  chamber,  as  she  had  done  ever  since  she  came  there, 
io  the  great  amazement  of  the  chambermaid,  she  prepared 
for  a  vigorous  onslaught  on  the  cupboards  and  closets  of  the 
establishment,  of  which  she  had  the  keys. 

The  storeroom,  the  linen-presses,  the  china-closet,  the 
kitchen  and  the  cellar,  that  day,  all  went  under  an  awful  re¬ 
view.  Hidden  things  of  darkness  were  brought  to  light  to 
an  extent  that  alarmed  all  the  principalities  and  powers  of 
kitchen  and  chamber,  and  caused  many  wonderings  and  mur- 
murings  about  “  dese  yer  Northern  ladies  99  from  the  do¬ 
mestic  cabinet. 

Old  Dinah,  the  head  cook  and  principal  of  all  rule  and 
authority  in  the  kitchen  department,  was  filled  with  wrath 
at  what  she  considered  an  invasion  of  privilege.  No  feudal 
baron  in  Magna  Charta  times  could  have  more  thoroughly 
resented  some  incursion  of  the  crown. 


LIFE  '  AMONG  THE  LOWLY, 

Diiiaii  was  a  character  in  her  own  way,  and  it  would  be 
injustice  to  her  memory  not  to  give  the  reader  a  little  idea 
of  her.  She  was  a  native  and  essential  cook,  as  much  as 
Aunt  Chloe,— cooking  being  an  indigenous  talent  of  the 
African  race;  but  Chloe  was  a  trained  and  methodical  one, 
who  moved  in  an  orderly  domestic  harness,  while  Dinah 
was  a  self-taught  genius,  and,  like  geniuses  in  general,  was 
positive,  opinionated,  and  erratic  to  the  last  degree. 

Like  a  certain  class  of  modern  philosophers,  Dinah  per¬ 
fectly  scorned  logic  and  reason  in  every  shape  and  always 
took  refuge  in  intuitive  certainty;  and  here  she  was  perfectly 
impregnable.  No  possible  amount  of  talent,  or  authority, 
or  explanation  could  ever  make  her  believe  that  any  other 
way  was  better  than  her  own,  or  that  the  course  she  had 
pursued  in  the  smallest  matter  could  be  in  the  least  modi¬ 
fied.  This  had  been  a  conceded  point  with  her  old  mistress, 
Marie’s  mother;  and  “  Miss  Marie,”  as  Dinah  always  called 
her  young  mistress,  even  after  her  marriage,  found  it  easier 
to  submit  than  contend;  and  so  Dinah  had  ruled  supreme. 
This  was  the  easier,  in  that  she  was  perfect  mistress  of  that 
diplomatic  art  which  unites  the  utmost  subservience  of 
manner  with  the  utmost  inflexibility  as  to  measure. 

Dinah  was  mistress  of  the  whole  art  and  mystery  of 
excuse-making  in  all  its  branches.  Indeed,  it  was  an  axiom 
with  her  that  the  cook  can  do  no  wrong;  and  a  cook  in  a 
Southern  kitchen  finds  abundance  of  heads  and  shoulders 
on  which  to  lay  off  every  sin  and  frailty  so  as  to  maintain  her 
own  inimaculateness  entire.  If  any  part  of  the  dinner  was 
a  failure  there  were  fifty  indisputably  good  reasons  for  it; 
and  it  was  the  fault  undeniably  of  fifty  other  people,  whom 
Dinah  berated  with  unsparing  zeal. 

But  it  was  very  seldom  that  there  was  any  failure  in 
Dinah’s  last  results.  Though  her  mode  of  doing  every¬ 
thing  was  peculiarly  meandering  and  circuitous,  and  with¬ 
out  any  sort  of  calculation  as  to  time  and  place, — though 
her  kitchen  generally  looked  as  if  it  had  been  arranged  by  & 
hurricane  blowing  through  it,  and  she  had  about  as  many 
places  for  each  cooking  utensil  as  there  were  days  in  the 
year,— yet,  if  one  would  have  patience  to  wait  her  own  good 
time,  up  would  come  her  dinner  in  perfect  order  and  in  m 
style  of  preparation  with  which  an  epicure  could  find  na 
fault. 

It  vw  now  the  season  of  incipient  preparation  for  dinner* 


210 


uncle  tom’s  cabin  ;  or, 

Dinah,  who  required  large  intervals  of  reflection  and  repose, 
and  was  studious  of  ease  in  all  her  arrangements,  was  seated 
on  the  kitchen  floor,  smoking  a  short,  stumpy  pipe,  to  which 
she  was  much  addicted,  and  which  she  always  kindled  up  as 
a  sort  of  censer  whenever  she  felt  the  need  of  an  inspiration 
in  her  arrangements.  It  was  Dinah's  mode  of  invoking  the 
domestic  Muses. 

Seated  around  her  were  various  members  of  that  rising 
race  with  which  a  Southern  household  abounds,  engaged  in 
shelling  peas,  peeling  potatoes,  picking  pin-feathers  out  of 
fowls,  and  other  preparatory  arrangements, — Dinah  every 
once  in  a  while  interrupting  her  meditations  to  give  a  poke, 
or  a  rap  on  the  head,  to  some  of  the  young  operators,  with 
the  pudding-stick  that  lay  by  her  side.  In  fact,  Dinah  ruled 
over  the  woolly  heads  of  the  younger  members  with  a  rod  of 
iron,  and  seemed  to  consider  them  born  for  no  earthly  pur¬ 
pose  but  to  “  save  her  steps/'  as  she  phrased  it.  It  was  the 
spirit  of  the  system  under  which  she  had  grown  up,  and 
she  carried  it  out  to  its  full  extent. 

Miss  Ophelia,  after  passing  on  her  reformatory  tour 
through  all  the  other  parts  of  the  establishment,  now 
entered  the  kitchen.  Dinah  had  heard,  from  various 
sources,  what  was  going  on,  and  resolved  to  stand  on  defen¬ 
sive  and  conservative  ground,  mentally  determined  to  oppose 
and  ignore  every  new  measure,  without  any  actual  and  ob¬ 
servable  contest. 

The  kitchen  was  a  large,  brick-floored  apartment,  with  a 
great  old-fashioned  fireplace  stretching  along  one  side  of  it, 
— -an  arrangement  which  St.  Clare  had  vainly  tried  to  per¬ 
suade  Dinah  to  exchange  for  the  convenience  of  a  modern 
cook-stove.  Not  she.  No  Puseyite,  or  conservative  of  any 
school,  was  ever  more  inflexibly  attached  to  time-honored 
inconveniences  than  Dinah. 

When  St.  Clare  had  first  returned  from  the  North,  im¬ 
pressed  with  the  system  and  order  of  his  uncle’s  kitchen  ar¬ 
rangements,  he  had  largely  provided  his  own  with  an  array 
of  cupboards,  drawers,  and  various  apparatus  to  induce  sys¬ 
tematic  regulations,  under  the  sanguine  illusion  that  it 
would  be  of  any  possible  assistance  to  Dinah  in  her  arrange¬ 
ments.  He  might  as  well  have  provided  them  for  a  squirrel 
or  a  magpie.  The  more  drawers  and  closets  there  weiU 
the  more  hiding-holes  could  Dinah  make  for  the  accommo¬ 
dation  of  old  rags,  hair-combs,  old  shoes,  ribbons*  cast-off 


life  among  .  the  lowly. 


artificial  flowers,  and  other  articles  of  vertu  wherein  her  soul 
delighted. 

When  Miss  Ophelia  entered  the  kitchen  Dinah,  did  not 
rise,  but  smoked  on  in  sublime  tranquillity,  regarding  her 
movements  obliquely  out  of  the  corner  of  her  eye,  but  ap¬ 
parently  intent  only  on  the  operations  around  her. 

Miss  Ophelia  commenced  opening  a  set  of  drawers, 

“  What  is  this  drawer  for,  Dinah?  "  she  said. 

“  It’s  handy  for  most  anything,  missis/'  said  Dinah.  So 
it  appeared  to  be.  From  the  variety  it  contained  Miss 
Ophelia  pulled  out  first  a  fine  damask  table-cloth,  stained 
with  blood,  having  evidently  been  used  to  envelop  some  raw 
meat. 

“  What's  this,  Dinah?  Yon  don't  wrap  up  meat  in  your 
mistress'  best  table-cloths?" 

Oh,  Lor,  missis,  no;  the  towels  was  all  a-missin', — so  I 
jest  did  it.  I  laid  out  to  wash  that  ar,— that's  why  I  put  it 
than" 

“Shif'less!"  said  Miss  Ophelia  to  herself,  proceeding  to 
tumble  over  the  drawer,  where  she  found  a  nutmeg  grater 
and  two  or  three  nutmegs,  a  Methodist  hymn-book,  a  couple 
of  soiled  Madras  handkerchiefs,  some  yarn  and  knitting- 
work,  a  paper  of  tobacco  and  a  pipe,  a  few  crackers,  one  or 
two  gilded  china  saucers  with  some  pomade  in  them,  one  or 
two  thin  old  shoes,  a  piece  of  flannel  carefully  pinned  up 
inclosing  some  small  white  onions,  several  damask  table- 
napkins,  some  coarse  crash  towels,  some  twine  and  darning- 
needles,  and  several  broken  papers  from  which  sundry  sweet 
herbs  v/ere  sifting  into  the  drawer. 

“Where  do  you  keep  your  nutmegs,  Dinah?"  said  Miss 
Ophelia,  with  the  air  of  one  who  prayed  for  patience. 

“  Most  anywhar,  missis;  there's  some  in  that  cracked 
teacup  up  there,  and  there's  some  over  in  that  ar  cupboard." 

“  Here  are  some  in  the  grater,"  said  Miss  Ophelia,  hold¬ 
ing  them  up. 

“  Laws,  yes,  I  put  'em  there  this  morning,— I  likes  to  keep 
my  things  handy,"  said  Dinah.  “  Yon,  Jake!  what  are  you 
stopping  for!  You'll  eotch  it!  Be  still,  thar!  "  she  added, 
with  a  dive  of  her  stick  at  the  criminal. 

“What's  this?"  said  Miss  Ophelia,  holding  up  the  saucer 
of  pomade. 

“  Laws,  it's  my  har  grease;— I  put  it  thar  to  have  it 
handy." 


tin  TOCLE  TOM^S  CABiir  ;  OBs 

“  Do  you  use  your  mistress’  best  saucers  for  that?  ^ 

“  Law!  it  was  cause  I  was  driv,  and  in  sieh  a  hurry;— I 
was  gwine  to  change  it  this  very  day.” 

“  Here  are  two  damask  table-napkins.” 

“  Them  table-napkins  I  put  thar,  to  get  ’em  washed  out- 
some  day.” 

“  Don’t  you  have  some  place  here  on  purpose  for  things 
to  be  washed?  ” 

“  Well,  Mas’r  St.  Clare  got  dat  ar  chest,  he  said,  for  dat; 
but  I  likes  to  mix  up  biscuit  and  hev  my  things  on  it  some 
days,  and  then  it  an’t  handy  a-liftin’  up  the  lid.” 

“  Why  don’t  you  mix  your  biscuits  on  the  pastry  table 
there?  ” 

“  Law,  missis,  it  gets  sot  so  full  of  dishes,  and  one  thing 
and  another,  der  an’t  no  room,  noways.” 

“  But  you  should  wash  your  dishes,  and  clear  them 
away.” 

“  Wash  my  dishes!  ”  said  Dinah,  in  a  high  key,  as  her 
wrath  began  to  rise  over  her  habitual  respect  of  manner; 
“what  does  ladies  know  ’bout  work,  I  want  to  know? 
When’d  mas’r  ever  get  his  dinner,  if  I  was  to  spend  all  my 
time  a-washin’  and  puttin’  up  dishes?  Miss  Marie  never 
telled  me  so,  nohow.” 

“  Well,  here  are  these  onions.” 

“Laws,  yes!  ”  said  Dinah;  “thar  is  whar  I  put  ’em  now. 
1  couldn’t  ’member.  Them’s  particular  onions  I  was  a- 
savin’  for  dis  yer  very  stew.  I’d  forgot  dev  was  in  dat  ar 
old  flannel.” 

Miss  Ophelia  lifted  out  the  sifting  papers  of  sweet  herbs. 

“  I  wish  missis  wouldn’t  touch  dem  ar.  I  likes  to  keep 
my  things  where  I  knows  whar  to  go  to  ’em,”  said  Dinah 
rather  decidedly. 

“  But  you  don’t  want  these  holes  in  the  papers.” 

“  Them’s  handy  for  siftin’  on’t  out,”  said  Dinah. 

“  But  you  see  it  spills  all  over  the  drawer.” 

“Laws,  yes!  if  missis  will  go  a-tumblin’  things  all  up  so, 
it  will.  Missis  has  spilt  lots  dat  ar  way,”  said  Dinah,  com¬ 
ing  uneasily  to  the  drawers.  “  If  missis  only  will  go 
upsta’rs  till  my  clarin’  up  time  comes,  I’ll  have  everything 
right:  but  I  can’t  do  nothin’  when  ladies  is  round  a-hen- 
derin’  You,  Sam,  don’t  you  gib  de  baby  dat  are  sugar-bowl! 
I’ll  crack  ye  over,  if  ye  don’t  mind!  ” 

“  I’m  going  through  the  kitchen,  and  going  to  put  every* 


LIFE  AMOKS  THE  LOWIiY. 


213 

thing  to  order,  once,  Dinah;  and  then  I’ll  ezpect  you  ':o  keep 
it  so.” 

Lor,  now!  Miss  ’Phelia,  dat  ar  an’t  no  way  for  ladies  to 
do.  I  never  did  see  ladies  doin’  no  sich;  my  old  missis  nor 
Miss  Marie  never  did,  and  I  don’t  see  no  kinder  need  on’t;” 
and  Dinah  stalked  indignantly  about,  while  Miss  Ophelia 
piled  and  sorted  dishes,  emptied  dozens  of  scattering  bowls 
of  sugar  into  one  receptacle,  sorted  napkins,  table-cloths, 
and  towels  for  washing;  washing,  wiping,  and  arranging  with 
her  own  hands,  and  with  a  speed  and  alacrity  which  perfectly 
amazed  Dinah. 

“  Lor,  now!  if  dat  ar  de  way  dem  Northern  ladies  do,  dey 
an’t  ladies,  nohow,”  she  said  to  some  of  her  satellites  when 
at  a  safe  hearing  distance.  “  I  has  things  as  straight  as  any¬ 
body  when  my  clarin’  up  time  comes;  but  I  don’t  want  ladies 
round  a-henderin’,  and  getting  my  things  all  where  I  can’t 
find  ’em.” 

To  do  Dinah  justice  she  had,  at  irregular  periods, 
paroxysms  of  reformation  and  arrangement,  which  she  called 
"clarin’  up  times,”  when  she  would  begin  with  great  zeal, 
and  turn  every  drawer  and  closet  wrong  side  outward  on  to 
the  floor  or  tables,  and  make  the  ordinary  confusion  seven¬ 
fold  more  confounded.  Then  she  would  light  her  pipe,  and 
leisurely  go  over  her  arrangements,  looking  things  over, 
and  discoursing  upon  them;  making  all  the  young  fry  scour 
most  vigorously  on  the  tin  things,  and  keeping  up  for  several 
hours  a  most  energetic  state  of  confusion,  which  she  would 
explain  to  the  satisfaction  of  all  inquirers  by  the  remark 
that  she  was  "  a-clarin’  up.”  She  “  couldn’t  hev  things 
a-gwine  on  so  as  they  had  been,  and  she  was  gwine  to  make 
these  yer  young  ones  keep  better  order;”  for  Dinah  herself, 
somehow,  indulged  the  illusion  that  she  herself  was  the  soul 
of  order,  and  it  was  only  the  young  uns ,  and  the  everybody 
else  in  the  house,  that  were  the  cause  of  anything  that  fell 
short  of  perfection  in  this  respect.  When  all  the  tins  were 
scoured,  and  the  tables  scrubbed  snowy  white,  and  every¬ 
thing  that  could  offend  tucked  out  of  sight  in  holes  and  cor¬ 
ners,  Dinah  would  dress  herself  up  in  a  smart  dress,  clean 
apron,  and  high,  brilliant  Madras  turban,  and  tell  all  ma¬ 
rauding  "  young  uns  ”  to  keep  out  of  the  kitchen,  for  she 
was  gwine  to  have  things  kept  nice.  Indeed,  these  periodic 
seasons  were  often  an  inconvenience  to  the  whole  house- 
bold;  for  Dinah  would  contract  such  an  immoderate  attach** 


214 


UNCLE  tom’s  cabin;  OB, 

ment  to  her  scoured  tin  as  to  insist  upon  it  that  it  shouldn’t 
be  used  again  for  any  possible  purpose,— at  least,  tiil  the 
ardor  of  the  u  clarin’  up  ”  period  abated. 

Miss  Ophelia  in  a  few  days  thoroughly  reformed  every 
department  of  the  house  to  a  systematic  pattern:  but  her 
labors  in  all  departments  that  depended  on  the  co-operation 
of  servants  were  like  those  of  Sisyphus  or  the  Danaides.  In 
despair  she  one  day  appealed  to  St.  Clare. 

66  There  is  no  such  thing  as  getting  anything  like  system 
in  this  family !  ” 

“  To  be  sure  there  isn’t/’  said  St.  Clare. 

“  Such  shiftless  management,  such  waste,  such  confusion, 
I  never  saw!  ” 

“  I  dare  say  you  didn’t.” 

“  You  would  not  take  it  so  coolly  if  you  were  house* 
keeper.” 

“  My  dear  cousin,  you  may  as  well  understand,  once  for 
all,  that  we  masters  are  divided  into  two  classes,  oppressors 
and  oppressed.  We  who  are  good-natured  and  hate  sever¬ 
ity  make  up  our  minds  to  a  good  deal  of  inconvenience. 
If  we  mil  keep  a  shambling,  loose,  untaught  set  in  the  com¬ 
munity,  for  our  convenience,  why,  we  must  take  the  con¬ 
sequence.  Some  rare  cases  I  have  seen,  of  persons,  who  by 
a  peculiar  tact  can  produce  order  and  system  without 
severity;  but  I’m  not  one  of  them,— and  so  I  made  up  my 
mind  long  ago  to  let  things  go  just  as  they  do.  I  will  not 
have  the  poor  devils  thrashed  and  cut  to  pieces,  and  they 
know  it,— and,  of  course,  they  know  the  staff  is  in  their  own 
hands.” 

“  But  to  have  no  time,  no  place,  no  order,— all  going  on 
in  this  shiftless  way!  ” 

“  My  dear  Vermont,  you  natives  up  by  the  North  Pole  set 
an  extravagant  value  on  time!  What  on  earth  is  the  use 
of  time  to  a  fellow  who  has  twice  as  much  of  it  as  he  knows 
what  to  do  with?  As  to  order  and  system,  where  there  is 
nothing  to  be  done  but  to  lounge  on  the  sofa  and  read,  an 
hour  sooner  or  later  in  breakfast  or  dinner  isn’t  of  much 
account.  Now,  there’s  Dinah  gets  you  a  capital  dinner, — 
soup,  ragout,  roast  fowl,  dessert,  ice-creams,  and  all,— and 
she  creates  it  all  out  of  chao05  and  old  night  down  there  in 
that  kitchen.  I  think  it  really  sublime,  the  way  she 
manages.  But,  Heaven  bless  uc!  if  we  are  to  go  down  there 
and  view  all  the  smoking  and  squatting  about,  and  hurry* 


IiIF??  AMOKS'  *353  ZO WhT,  215 

scurryation  of  the  preparatory  proc.es?>  we  should  never  eat 
more!  My  good  cousin,  absolve  yourself  from  that!  It's 
more  than  a  Catholic  penance,  and  does  no  more  good. 
You'll  only  lose  your  own  temper,  and  utterly  confound 
Dinah.  Let  her  go  her  own  way/ ' 

But,  Augustine,  you  don't  know  how  I  found  things.” 

“Don't  1?  Don’t  I  know  that  the  rolling-pin  is  under 
her  bed,  and  the  nutmeg-grater  in  her  pocket  with  her 
tobacco, —that  there  are  sixty-five  different  sugar-bowls,  one 
in  .every  hole  in  the  house, — that  she  washes  dishes  with  a 
dinner -napkin  one  day,  and  with  a  fragment  of  an  old  petti¬ 
coat  the  next?  But  the  upshot  is,  she  gets  up  glorious  din¬ 
ners,  makes  superb  coffee;  and  you  must  judge  her  as  war¬ 
riors  and  statesmen  are  judged,  by  her  success  .” 

“  But  the  waste,— the  expense!  ” 

“  Oh,  well!  Lock  everything  you  can  and  keep  the  key. 
Give  out  bv  driblets,  and  never  inquire  for  odds  and  ends, — - 
it  isn’t  best.” 

“  That  troubles  me,  Augustine.  I  can’t  help  feeling  as 
if  these  servants  were  not  strictly  honest .  Are  you  sure  they 
can  be  relied  on?  ” 

Augustine  laughed  immoderately  at  the  grave  and  anxious 
face  with  which  Miss  Ophelia  propounded  the  question. 

“Ch,  cousin,  that’s  too  good, — honest!— as  if  that’s  a 
thing  to  be  expected!  Honest! — why,  of  course  they  aren’t. 
Whv  should  they  be?  What  upon  earth  is  to  make  them 
scr” 

“Why  don’t  you  instruct?” 

“Instruct!  Oh,  fiddlestick!  What  instructing  do  you 
think  I  should  do?  I  look  like  it!  As  to  Marie,  she  has 
spirit  enough,  to  be  sure,  to  kill  off  a  whole  plantation,  if  I’d 
let  her  manage;  but  she  wouldn’t  get  the  cheat ery  out  of 
them.” 

“'Are  there  no  honest  ones?” 

“Well,  now  and  then  one,  whom  Nature  makes  so  im¬ 
practicably  simple,  truthful,  and  faithful,  that  the  worst 
possible  influence  can’t  destroy  it.  But,  you  see,  from  the 
mother’s  breast  the  colored  child  feels  and  sees  that  there 
are  none  but  underhand  ways  open  to  it.  It  can  get  along 
no  other  way  with  its  parents,  its  mistress,  its  young  master 
and  missie  playfellows.  Cunning  and  deception  become 
necessary,  inevitable  habits.  It  isn’t  fair  to  expect  anything 
else  of  him.  He  ought  not  to  be  punished  for  it.  As  to 


816 


TTNCLB  TOM*S  CABIN  ;  OB, 

honesty,  the  slave  is  kept  in  that  dependent,  semi-chOdisK 
state  that  there  is  no  making  him  realize  the  rights  of 
property,  or  feel  that  his  master's  goods  are  not  his  own,  if 
he  can  get  them.  For  my  part,  I  don't  see  how  they  can  be 
honest.  Such  a  fellow  as  Tom,  here,  is— is  a  moral 
miracle!  ” 

“  And  what  becomes  of  their  souls?  ”  said  Miss  Ophelia. 

“  That  isn’t  my  affair,  as  I  know  of,”  said  St.  Clare;  “  I 
am  only  dealing  in  facts  of  the  present  life.  The  fact  is, 
that  the  whole  race  are  pretty  generally  understood  to  be 
turned  over  to  the  devil  for  our  benefit  in  this  world,  how¬ 
ever  it  may  turn  out  in  another!  ” 

-"This  is  perfectly  horrible!”  said  Miss  Ophelia;  "yon 
ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourselves!  ” 

“  I  don’t  know  as  I  am.  We  are  in  pretty  good  company, 
for  all  that,”  said  St.  Clare,  “  as  people  in  the  broad  road 
generally  are.  Look  at  the  high  and  the  low,  all  the  world 
over,  and  it’s  the  same  story,— the  lower  class  used  up,  body, 
soul,  and  spirit,  for  the  good  of  the  upper.  It  is  so  in  Eng¬ 
land;  it  is  so  everywhere;  and  yet  all  Christendom  stands 
aghast  with  virtuous  indignation  because  we  do  the  thing 
in  a  little  different  shape  from  what  they  do  it.” 

“It  isn’t  so  in  Vermont.” 

“  Ah,  well,  in  New  England  and  in  the  free  States  you 
have  the  better  of  us,  I  grant.  But  there’s  the  bell;  so, 
cousin,  let  us  for  a  while  lay  aside  our  sectional  prejudices, 
and  come  out  to  dinner.” 

As  Miss  Ophelia  was  in  the  kitchen  in  the  latter  part  of 
the  afternoon  some  of  the  sable  children  called  out,  “  La, 
sakes!  thar’s  Prue  a-coming,  grunting  along  like  she  allers 
does.” 

A  tall,  bony  colored  woman  now  entered  the  kitchen,  bear¬ 
ing  on  her  head  a  basket  of  rusks  and  hot  rolls. 

“Ho,  Prue!  you’ve  come,”  said  Dinah. 

Prue  had  a  peculiar  scowling  expression  of  countenance 
and  a  sullen,  grumbling  voice.  She  set  down  her  basket, 
squatted  herself  down,  and,  resting  her  elbows  on  her  knees, 
said: 

“  Oh,  Lord!  I  wish’t  I’s  dead!  ” 

“  Why  do  you  wish  you  were  dead?  ”  said  Miss  Ophelia. 

“  Pd  be  out  o’  my  misery,”  said  the  woman  gruffly,  with¬ 
out  taking  her  eyes  from  the  floor. 

“What  need  you  getting  drunk,  then,  and  cutting  up. 


&IFE  AMOJSTO  OTTE  $17 

Prue! ”  saiu  a  spruce  quadroon  chambermaid,  dangling,  as 
she  spoke,  a  pair  of  coral  ear-drops. 

The  woman  looked  at  her  with  a  sour,  surly  glance. 

Maybe  you?ll  come  to  it,  one  of  these  yer  days.  I’d  be 
glad  to  see  you,  I  would;  then  yen’ll  be  glad  of  a  drop,  like 
me,  to  forget  your  misery.” 

“  Come,  Prue,”  said  Dinah,  “  let’s  look  at  your  rusks. 
Here’s  missis  will  pay  for  them.” 

Miss  Ophelia  took  out  a  couple  of  dozen. 

“  Thar’s  some  tickets  in  that  ar  old  cracked  jug  on  the 
top  shelf,”  said  Dinah.  “  You,  Jake,  climb  up  and  get  it 
down.” 

“  Tickets,— what  are  they  for?  ”  said  Miss  Ophelia. 

“  We  buy  tickets  of  her  mas’r,  and  she  gives  us  bread  for 
’em.” 

“And  they  counts  my  money  and  tickets,  when  I  gets 
home,  to  see  if  I’s  got  the  change;  and  if  I  han’t  they  half 
kills  me.” 

“  And  serves  you  right,”  said  J ane,  the  pert  chamber¬ 
maid,  “  if  you  will  take  their  money  to  get  drunk  on.  That’s 
what  she  does,  missis.” 

“  And  that’s  what  I  will  do, — I  can’t  live  no  other  ways,— 
drink  and  forget  my  misery.” 

“  You  are  very  wicked  and  very  foolish,”  said  Miss 
Ophelia,  “  to  steal  your  master’s  money  to  make  yourself  a 
brute  with.” 

“  It’s  mighty  likely,  missis;  but  I  will  do  it, — yes,  I  wilL 
Oh,  Lord!  I  wash  I’s  dead,  I  do,  I  wish  I’s  dead,  and  out  of 
my  misery!  ”  and  slowly  and  stiffly  the  old  creature  rose, 
and  got  her  basket  on  her  head  again;  but  before  she  went 
out  she  looked  at  the  quadroon  girl,  who  still  stood  playing 
with  her  ear-drops. 

“  Ye  think  ye’re  mighty  fine  with  them  ar,  a-frolickm* 
and  a-tossin’  your  head,  and  a-lookin’  down  on  everybody. 
Well,  never  mind,  you  may  live  to  be  a  poor,  old,  cut-up 
crittur  like  me.  Hope  to  the  Lord  ye  will,  I  do;  then  see 
if  ye  won’t  drink — drink — drink — yerself  into  torment;  and 
sarve  ye  right,  too,- — ugh!  ”  and,  with  a  malignant  howl,  the 
woman  left  the  room. 

“Disgusting  old  beast!”  said  Adolph,  who  was  getting 
bis  master’s  shaving-water.  “  If  I  was  her  master  I’d  cut 
tier  up  worse  than  she  is.” 

“Ye  couldn’t  do  that  ar,  noways,”  said  Dinah.  “Hen 


MS  uhcm  tcm’s  oabih;, 

back’s  a  far  sight  now,— she  can’t  never  get  a  dress  together 
over  it.” 

“  I  think  such  low  creatures  ought  not  to  be  allowed  to 
go  round  to  genteel  families,”  said  Miss  Jane.  “What  do 
you  think,  Mr.  St.  Clare?”  she  said,  coquettishly  tossing 
her  head  at  Adolph. 

It  must  be  observed  that,  among  other  appropriations 
from  his  master’s  stock,  Adolph  was  in  the  habit  of  adopting 
his  name  and  address;  and  that  the  style  under  which  he 
moved  among  the  colored  circles  of  New  Orleans  was  that  of 
Mr.  St.  Clare . 

“  I’m  certainly  of  your  opinion.  Miss  Benoir,”  said 
Adolph. 

Benoir  was  the  name  of  Marie  St.  Clare’s  family,  and  J ane 
was  one  of  her  servants. 

“  Pray,  Miss  Benoir,  may  I  be  allowed  to  ask  if  those 
drops  are  for  the  ball  to-morrow  night?  They  are  certainly 
bewitching!  ” 

“  I  wonder,  now,  Mr.  St.  Clare,  what  the  impudence  of 
you  men  will  come  to!  ”  said  Jane,  tossing  her  pretty  head 
till  the  ear-drops  twinkled  again.  “  I  shan’t  dance  with  you 
for  a  whole  evening,  if  you  go  to  asking  me  any  more 
questions.” 

“  Oh,  you  couldn’t  be  so  cruel,  now!  I  was  just  dying  to 
know  whether  you  would  appear  in  your  pink  tarlatan,”  said 
Adolph. 

“What  is  it?”  said  Rosa,  a  bright,  piquante  little  quad* 
roon,  who  came  skipping  downstairs  at  this  moment. 

“  Why,  Mr.  St.  Clare  is  so  impudent!  ” 

“  On  my  honor,”  said  Adolph,  “  I’ll  leave  it  to  Miss  Rosa, 
now.” 

“  I  know  he’s  always  a  saucy  creature,”  said  Rosa,  poising 
herself  on  one  of  her  little  feet  and  looking  maliciously  at 
Adolph.  “  He’s  always  getting  me  so  angry  with  him.” 

“  Oh,  ladies,  ladies,  you  will  certainly  break  my  heart,  be¬ 
tween  you,”  said  Adolph.  “  I  shall  be  found  dead  in  my 
bed  some  morning,  and  you’ll  have  it  to  answer  for.” 

“Do  hear  the  horrid  creature  talk!”  said  both  ladies, 
laughing  immoderately. 

“  Come — clar  out,  yon!  I  can’t  have  you  cluttering  up 
the  kitchen,”  said  Dinah;  “in  my  way,  foolin’  round  here.” 

“Aunt  Dinah’s  glum,  because  she  can’t  go  to  the  ball/* 
said  Rosac 


MWM  AMONG  THE  LOW LY. 


n* 

“  Don’t  want  none  o’  your  light-colored  balls/’  said  Din  A; 
u  cuttin’  round,  makin’  b’lieve  yen’s  white  folks.  Arter  all, 
you’s  niggers,  much  as  I  am.” 

“  Aunt  Dinah  greases  her  wool  stiff  every  day  to  make  it 
lie  straight,”  said  Jane. 

“And  it  will  be  wool,  after  all,”  said  Eosa,  maliciously 
shaking  down  her  long,  silky  curls. 

“  Well,  in  the  Lord’s  sight,  an’t  wool  as  good  as  har  any 
time?”  said  Dinah.  “I’d  like  to  have  missis  say  which  is 
worth  the  most, — a  couple  such  as  you,  or  one  like  me.  Get 
out  wid  ye,  ye  trumpery, — I  won’t  have  ye  round!  ’  ’ 

Here  the  conversation  was  interrupted  in  a  twofold  man¬ 
ner.  St.  Clare’s  voice  was  heard  at  the  head  of  the  stairs, 
asking  Adolph  if  he  meant  to  stay  all  night  with  his  shaving- 
water;  and  Miss  Ophelia,  coming  from  the  dining  room, 
said: 

“Jane  and  Eosa,  what  are  you  wasting  your  time  for 
here?  Go  in  and  attend  to  your  muslins.” 

Our  friend  Tom,  who  had  been  in  the  kitchen  during  the 
conversation  with  the  old  rusk-woman,  had  followed  her 
out  into  the  street.  He  saw  her  go  on,  giving  every  once 
in  a  while  a  suppressed  groan.  At  last  she  set  her  basket 
down  on  a  doorstep,  and  began  arranging  the  old,  faded 
shawl  which  covered  her  shoulders. 

“I’ll  carry  your  basket  a  piece,”  said  Tom  compassion¬ 
ately. 

“Why  should  ye?”  said  the  woman.  “I  don’t  want  no 
help.” 

“  You  seem  to  be  sick,  or  in  trouble,  or  somethin’,”  said 
Tom. 

“  I  an’t  sick,”  said  the  woman  shortly. 

“  I  wish,”  said  Tom,  looking  at  her  earnestly,— “  I  wish  I 
could  persuade  you  to  leave  off  drinking.  Don’t  ye  know  it 
will  be  the  ruin  of  ye,  body  and  soul?  ” 

“  I  knows  I’m  gwine  to  torment,”  said  the  woman  sul¬ 
lenly.  “  Ye  don’t  need  to  tell  me  that  ar.  I’s  ugly,— I’s 
wicked,— I’s  gwine  straight  to  torment.  Oh,  Lord!  I  wish 
I’s  thar!  ” 

Tom  shuddered  at  these  frightful  words,  spoken  with  w 
sullen,  impassioned  earnestness. 

“  0  Lord  have  mercy  on  ye!  poor  erittur.  Han’t  ye  nevef* 
heard  of  Jesus  Christ?” 

“Jesus  Christ,— who’s  he?” 


UNCLE  tom’s  cabin  ;  OSS* 

“  Why,  he’s  ffo  Lord”  said  Tom. 

“  I  think  I’ve  hearn  tell  o’  the  Lord,  and  the  judgment 
and  torment.  Fve  heard  o’  that.” 

4 t But  didn’t  anybody  ever  tell  you  of  the  Lord  Jesus,  that 
loved  us  poor  sinners,  and  died  for  us?  ” 

“  Don’t  know  nothin’  ’bout  that,”  said  the  woman;  “  no- 
body  han’t  never  loved  me  since  my  old  man  died.” 

“  Where  was  you  raised?  ”  said  Tom. 

“  Up  in  Kentuck.  A  man  kept  me  to  breed  chil’en  for 
market,  and  sold  ’em  as  fast  as  they  got  big  enough;  last  of 
all,  he  sold  me  to  a  speculator,  and  my  mas’r  got  me  o’ 
Mm.” 

“What  set  you  into  this  bad  way  of  drinkin’?” 

“To  get  shet  o’  my  misery.  I  had  one  child  after  I 
come  here;  and  I  thought  then  I’d  have  one  to  raise,  ’cause 
mas’r  wasn’t  a  speculator.  It  was  the  peartest  little  thing! 
and  missis  she  seemed  to  think  a  heap  on’t,  at  first;  it  never 
cried,— it  was  likely  and  fat.  But  missis  tuck  sick,  and  I 
tended  her;  and  I  tuck  the  fever,  and  my  milk  all  left  me, 
and  the  child  it  pined  to  skin  and  bone,  and  missis  wouldn’t 
buy  milk  for  it.  She  wouldn’t  hear  to  me  when  I  telled  her 
I  hadn’t  milk.  She  said  she  knowed  I  could  feed  it  on  what 
other  folks  eat;  and  the  child  kinder  pined,  and  cried,  and 
cried,  and  cried,  day  and  night,  and  got  all  gone  to  skin  and 
bones,  and  missis  got  sot  agin  it,  and  she  said  ’twarn’t 
nothin’  but  crossness.  She  wished  it  was  dead,  she  said;  and 
she  wouldn’t  let  me  have  it  o’  nights,  ’cause,  she  said,  it 
kept  me  awake  and  made  me  good  for  nothing.  She  made 
me  sleep  in  her  room;  and  I  had  to  put  it  away  off  in  a  little 
kind  o’  garret,  and  thar  it  cried  itself  to  death,  one  night. 
It  did;  and  I  tuck  to  drinkin’  to  keep  its  cryin’  out  of  my 
ears!  I  did,— and  I  will  drink!  I  will,  if  I  do  go  to  tor¬ 
ment  for  it!  Mas’r  says  I  shall  go  to  torment,  and  I  tell 
Mm  I’ve  got  thar  now!  ” 

“  Oh,  ye  poor  crittur,”  said  Tom,  “  han’t  nobody  never 
telled  ye  how  the  Lord  Jesus  loved  ye,  and  died  for  ye? 
Han’t  they  telled  ye  that  he’ll  help  ye,  and  ye  can  go  to 
heaven,  and  have  rest,  at  last!  ” 

t  “  I  looks  like  gwine  to  heaven,”  said  the  woman;  “an’t 
thar  where  white  folks  is  gwine?  S’pose  they’d  have  me 
thar?  I’d  rather  go  to  torment,  and  get  away  from  mas’r 
and  missis.  I  had  so,”  she  said,  as,  with  her  usual  groan, 
she  got  her  basket  on  her  head  and  walked  sullenlv  away. 


XJ2T2S  AMONG  THIS  LOWLY. 


221 

Tom  turned  and  walked  sorrowfully  back  to  the  house. 
In  the  court  he  met  little  Eva, — a  crown  of  tuberoses  on  her 
head,  and  her  eyes  radiant  with  delight. 

“  Oh,  Tom!  here  you  are.  Fm  glad  Fve  found  you. 
Papa  says  you  ma)  get  out  the  ponies,  and  take  me  in  my 
little  new  carriage,”  she  said,  catching  his  hand.  “  But 
what’s  the  matter,  Tom? — you  look  sober.” 

“  I  feel  bad.  Miss  Eva,”  said  Tom  sorrowfully.  “  But  I’ll 
get  the  horses  for  you.” 

“  But  do  tell  me,  Tom,  what  is  the  matter.  I  saw  you 
talking  to  cross  old  Prue.” 

Tom,  in  simple,  earnest  phrase,  told  Eva  the  woman’s  his¬ 
tory.  She  did  not  exclaim,  or  wonder,  or  weep,  as  other 
children  do.  Her  cheeks  grew  pale,  and  a  deep,  earnest 
shadow  passed  over  her  eyes.  She  laid  both  hands  on  her 
bosom  and  sighed  heavily. 


CHAPTEB  XIX. 

miss  Ophelia’s  experiences  and  opinions,  con¬ 
tinued. 

“Tom,  you  needn’t  get  me  the  horses.  I  don’t  want  to  go,” 
she  said. 

“  Why  not,  Miss  Eva?  ” 

“  These  things  sink  into  my  heart,  Tom,”  said  Eva,-— 
“  they  sink  into  my  heart,”  she  repeated  earnestly.  “  I  don’t 
want  to  go;  ”  and  she  turned  from  Tom  and  went  into  the 
house. 

A  few  days  after  another  woman  came  in  old  Prue’s  place 
to  bring  the  rusks.  Miss  Ophelia  was  in  the  kitchen. 

“Lor!”  said  Dinah,  “what’s  got  Prue?” 

“  Prue  isn’t  coming  any  more,”  said  the  woman  myste¬ 
riously. 

“  Why  not?  ”  said  Dinah.  “  She  an’t  dead,  is  she?  ” 

“  We  doesn’t  exactly  know.  She’s  down  cellar,”  said  the 
woman,  glancing  at  Miss  Ophelia. 

After  Miss  Ophelia  had  taken  the  rusks  Dinah  followed 
the  woman  to  the  door. 

“What  has  got  Prue,  anyhow?” 

The  woman  seemed  desirous,  yet  reluctant,  to  speak,  and 
answered  in  a  low,  mysterious  tone, — “  Well,  you  mustn’t 


122 


uncle  tom’s  cabin;  OB* 

tell  nobody.  Prue,  she  got  drunk  again,- — and  they  had  her 
down  cellar, — and  thar  they  left  her  all  day, — and  I  hearn 
’em  saying  that  the  flies  had  got  to  her—  and  she’s  dead!  ” 

Dinah  held  up  her  hands,  and,  turning,  saw  close  by  her 
side  the  spirit-like  form  of  Evangeline,  her  large,  mystic  eyes 
dilated  with  horror,  and  every  drop  of  blood  driven  from 
her  lips  and  cheeks. 

“  Lor  bless  us!  Miss  Eva’s  gwine  to  faint  away!  What 
got  us  all  to  let  her  har  such  talk?  Her  pa’ll  be  rail  mad.” 

“  I  shan’t  faint,  Dinah,”  said  the  child  firmly;  “  and  why 
shouldn’t  I  hear  it?  It  an’t  so  much  for  me  to  hear  it,  as  for 
poor  Prue  to  suffer  it.” 

“  Lor  sakes !  it  isn’t  for  s^weet,  delicate  young  ladies  like 
you, — these  yer  stories  isn’t;  it’s  enough  to  kill  ’em.” 

Eva  sighed  again,  and  walked  upstairs  with  a  slow  and 
melancholy  step. 

Miss  Ophelia  anxiously  inquired  the  woman’s  story.  Dinah 
gave  a  very  garrulous  version  of  it,  to  which  Tom  added  the 
particulars  which  he  had  drawn  from  her  that  morning. 

“  An  abominable  business, — perfectly  norrible!”  she  ex¬ 
claimed,  as  she  entered  the  room  where  St.  Clare  lay,  read¬ 
ing  his  paper. 

“  Pray,  what  iniquity  has  turned  up  now?  ”  said  he. 

“What  now?  Why,  those  folks  have  whipped  Prue  to 
death!”  said  Miss  Ophelia,  going  on,  with  great  strength 
of  detail,  into  the  story,  and  enlarging  on  its  most  shocking 
particulars. 

“  I  thought  it  would  come  to  that,  some  time,”  said  St. 
Clare,  going  on  with  his  paper. 

“Thought  so! — an’t  you  going  to  do  anything  about  it?” 
said  Miss  Ophelia.  “  Haven’t  you  got  any  selectmen ,  or 
anybody,  to  interfere  and  look  after  such  matters?” 

“  It’s  commonly  supposed  that  the  property  interest  is  a 
sufficient  guard  in  these  cases.  If  people  choose  to  ruin 
their  own  possessions,  I  don’t  know  what’s  to  be  done.  It 
seems  the  poor  creature  was  a  thief  and  a  drunkard;  and 
so  there  won’t  be  much  hope  to  get  up  sympathy  for  her.” 

;  “  It  is  perfectly  outrageous,- — it  is  horrid,  Augustine!  It 
Will  ebrtainly  bring  down  vengeance  upon  you.” 

“  My  dear  cousin,  I  didn’t  do  it,  and  I  can’t  help  it;  I  would 
if  I  could.  If  low-minded,  brutal  people  will  act  like  them¬ 
selves,  what  am  I  to  do?  They  have  absolute  control;  they 
are  irresponsible  despots.  There  would  be  no  use  in  inter- 


LIFE  AIIONG  THB  LOWLY, 


its 

fering;  there  is  no  law  that  amounts  to  anything  practically, 
for  such  a  case.  The  best  we  can  do  is  to  shut  our  eyes  and 
ears  and  let  it  alone.  It’s  the  only  resource  left  us.” 

“  How  can  you  shut  your  eyes  and  ears?  How  can  you  let 
such  things  alone?  ” 

“My  dear  child,  what  do  you  expect?  Here  is  a  whole 
class,— debased,  uneducated,  indolent,  provoking, — put, 
without  any  sort  of  terms  or  conditions,  entirely  into  the 
hands  of  such  people  as  the  majority  in  our  world  are; 
people  who  have  neither  consideration  nor  self-control,  who 
haven’t  even  an  enlightened  regard  for  their  own  interest,— 
for  that’s  the  case  with  the  largest  half  of  mankind.  Of 
course,  in  a  community  so  organized,  what  can  a  man  of 
honorable  and  humane  feelings  do,  but  shut  his  eyes  all  he 
can,  and  harden  his  heart?  I  can’t  buy  every  poor  wretch 
I  see.  I  can’t  turn  knight-errant,  and  attempt  to  redress 
every  individual  case  of  wrong  in  such  a  city  as  this.  The 
most  I  can  do  is  to  try  and  keep  out  of  the  way  of  it.” 

St.  Clare’s  fine  countenance  was  for  a  moment  overcast; 
he  looked  annoyed,  but,  suddenly  calling  up  a  gay  smile,  he 
said: 

“  Come,  cousin,  don’t  stand  there  looking  like  one  of  the 
Fates;  you’ve  only  seen  a  peep  through  the  curtain,— a  speci¬ 
men  of  what  is  going  on,  the  world  over,  in  some  shape  or 
other.  If  we  are  to  be  prying  and  spying  into  all  the  dis¬ 
mals  of  life,  we  should  have  no  heart  to  anything.  ’Tis  like 
looking  too  close  into  the  details  of  Dinah’s  kitchen;  ”  and 
St.  Clare  lay  back  on  the  sofa,  and  busied  himself  with  his 
paper. 

Miss  Ophelia  sat  down  and  pulled  out  her  knitting-work, 
and  sat  there  grim  with  indignation.  She  knit  and  knit, 
but  while  she  mused  the  fire  burned;  at  last  she  broke  out: 

“  I  tell  you,  Augustine,  I  can’t  get  over  things  so,  if  you 
can.  It’s  a  perfect  abomination  tor  you  to  defend  such  a 
system, — that’s  my  mind!  ” 

“What  now?”  said  St.  Clare,  looking  up.  “At  it  again, 
hey?” 

“  I  say  it’s  perfectly  abominable  for  you  to  defend  such  a 
system!  ”  said  Miss  Ophelia,  with  increasing  warmth. 

“I  defend  it,  my  dear  lady?  Who  ever  said  I  did  defend 

it?”  said  St.  Clare. 

“  Of  course  you  defend  it, — you  all  do,— all  you  South® 
erners.  What  do  you  have  slaves  for,  if  you  don’t?  ” 


#B4  UNCLB  TOMfS  CABIN;' OB* 

“Are  you  such  a  sweet  innocent  as  to  suppose  no¬ 
body  in  this  world  ever  does  what  they  don’t  think  is  right? 
Don’t  you  or  didn’t  you  ever  do  anything  that  you  did  not 
think  quite  right?  ” 

“  If  I  do,  I  repent  of  it,  I  hope,”  said  Miss  Ophelia,  rat¬ 
tling  her  needles  with  energy. 

“So  do  I,”  said  St.  Clare,  peeling  his  orange;  “I’m  re¬ 
penting  of  it  all  the  time.” 

“  What  do  you  keep  on  doing  it  for?  ” 

“  Didn’t  you  ever  keep  on  doing  wrong,  after  you’d  re¬ 
pented,  my  good  cousin?  ” 

“  Well,  only  when  I’ve  been  very  much  tempted,”  said 
Miss  Ophelia. 

“  Well,  I’m  very  much  tempted,”  said  St.  Clare;  “  that’s 
just  my  difficulty.” 

“  But  I  always  resolve  I  won’t,  and  I  try  to  break  off.” 

“Well,  I  have  been  resolving  I  won’t,  off  and  on,  these 
ten  years,”  said  St.  Clare;  “  but  I  haven’t  somehow  got  clear. 
Have  you  got  clear  of  all  your  sins,  cousin?  ” 

“  Cousin  Augustine,”  said  Miss  Ophelia  seriously,  and  lay¬ 
ing  down  her  knitting-work,  “  I  suppose  I  deserve  that  you 
should  reprove  my  shortcomings.  I  know  all  you  say  is  true 
enough;  nobody  else  feels  them  more  than  I  do;  but  it  does 
seem  to  me,  after  all,  there  is  some  difference  between  me 
and  you.  It  seems  to  me  I  would  cut  off  my  right  hand 
sooner  than  keep  on,  from  day  to  day,  doing  what  I  thought 
was  wrong.  But,  then,  my  conduct  is  so  inconsistent  with  my 
profession,  I  don’t  wonder  you  reprove  me.” 

“  Oh,  now,  cousin,”  said  Augustine,  sitting  down  on  the 
floor,  and  laying  his  head  hack  in  her  lap,  “  don’t  take  on  so 
awfully  serious!  You  know  what  a  good-for-nothing,  saucy 
boy  I  always  was.  I  love  to  poke  you  up,— that’s  all,— just 
to  see  you  get  earnest.  I  do  think  you  are  desperately,  dis¬ 
tressingly  good;  it  tires  me  to  death  to  think  of  it.” 

“  But  this  is  a  serious  subject,  my  boy,  Auguste,”  said 
Miss  Ophelia,  laying  her  hand  on  his  forehead. 

“Dismally  so,”  said  he;  “and  I,— well,  I  never  want  to 
talk  seriously  in  hot  weather.  What  with  mosquitoes  and  all, 
a  fellow  can’t  get  himself  up  to  any  very  sublime  moral 
flights;  and  I  believe,”  said  St.  Clare,  suddenly  rousing  him¬ 
self  up,  “there’s  a  theory,  now!  I  understand  now  why 
northern  nations  are  always  more  virtuous  than  southern 
ones, — T  see  into  that  whole  subject.” 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY.  23$ 

u  Oh,  Auguste,  you  are  a  sad  rattlebrain!  ” 

“  Am  I?  Well,  so  X  am,  I  suppose;  but  for  once  I  will  be 
serious  now;  but  you  must  hand  me  that  basket  of  oranges; 
— you  see,  you’ll  have  to  ‘  stay  me  with  flagons  and  com¬ 
fort  me  with  apples/  if  I’m  going  to  make  this  effort.  Now/’ 
said  Augustine,  drawing  the  basket  up,  “I’ll  begin.  When* 
in  the  course  of  human  events,  it  becomes  necessary  for  a 
fellow  to  hold  two  or  three  dozen  of  his  fellow-worms  in 
captivity,  a  decent  regard  to  the  opinions  of  society  re¬ 
quires - ” 

“  I  don’t  see  that  you  are  growing  more  serious,”  said 
Miss  Ophelia. 

“  Wait, — I’m  coming  on, — you’ll  hear.  The  short  of  the 
matter  is,  cousin,”  said  he,  his  handsome  face  suddenly  set¬ 
tling  into  an  earnest  and  serious  expression,  “  on  this  ab¬ 
stract  question  of  slavery  there  can,  as  I  think,  be  but  one 
opinion.  Planters,  who  have  money  to  make  by  it, — clergy¬ 
men,  who  have  planters  to  please,— politicians,  who  want  to 
rule  by  it, — may  warp  and  bend  language  and  ethics  to  a 
degree  that  shall  astonish  the  world  at  their  ingenuity;  they 
can  press  nature  and  the  Bible,  and  nobody  knows  what  else, 
into  the  service;  but,  after  all,  neither  they  nor  the  world 
believe  in  it  one  particle  the  more.  It  comes  from  the  devil, 
that’s  the  short  of  it; — and,  to  my  mind,  it’s  a  pretty  respect¬ 
able  specimen  of  what  he  can  do  in  his  own  line.” 

Miss  Ophelia  stopped  her  knitting,  and  looked  surprised; 
and  St.  Clare,  apparently  enjoying  her  astonishment,  went 
on: 

“  You  seem  to  wonder;  but  if  you  will  get  me  fairly  at  it, 
I’ll  make  a  clean  breast  of  it.  This  cursed  business,  accursed 
of  God  and  man,  what  is  it?  Strip  it  of  all  its  ornament, 
run  it  down  to  the  root  and  nucleus  of  the  whole,  and  what 
is  it?  Why,  because  my  brother  Quashy  is  ignorant  and 
weak,  and  I  am  intelligent  and  strong, — because  I  know  how, 
and  can  do  it, — therefore,  I  may  steal  all  he  has,  keep  it, 
and  give  him  only  such  and  so  much  as  suits  my  fancy. 
Whatever  is  too  hard,  too  dirty,  too  disagreeable  for  me.  I 
may  set  Quashy  to  doing.  Because  I  don’t  like  work,  Quashy 
shall  work.  Because  the  sun  burns  me,  Quashy  shall  stay  in 
the  sun.  Quashy  shall  earn  the  money,  and  I  will  spend  it. 
Quashy  shall  lie  down  in  every  puddle,  that  I  may  walk  over 
dry-shod.  Quashy  shall  do  my  will,  and  not  his,  all  the  days 
jof  his  mortal  life,  and  have  such  chance  of  getting  to  heaven, 


ne 


UNCLE  TOM’S  CABIN  |  OB, 

at  last,  as  I  find  convenient.  This  I  take  to  be  about  wKai 
slavery  is.  I  defy  anybody  on  earth  to  read  our  slave  code, 
as  it  stands  in  our  law-books,  and  make  anything  else  of  it. 
Talk  of  the  abuses  of  slavery!  Humbug!  The  thing  itself 
is  the  essence  of  all  abuse!  And  the  only  reason  why  the 
land  don't  sink  under  it,  like  Sodom  and  Gomorrah,  Is  be¬ 
cause  it  is  used  in  a  way  infinitely  better  than  it  is.  For 
pity's  sake,  for  shame's  sake,. because  we  are  men  born  of 
women  and  not  savage  beasts,  many  of  us  do  not,  and  dare 
not, — we  would  scorn  to  use  the  full  power  which  our  savage 
laws  put  into  our  hands.  And  he  who  goes  the  furthest, 
and  does  the  worst,  only  uses  within  limits  the  power  that 
the  law  gives  him." 

St.  Clare  had  started  up,  and,  as  his  manner  was  when 
excited,  was  walking  with  hurried  steps  up  and  down  the 
floor.  His  fine  face,  classic  as  that  of  a  Greek  statue,  seemed 
actually  to  burn  with  the  fervor  of  his  feelings.  His  large 
blue  eyes  flashed,  and  he  gestured  with  an  unconscious 
eagerness.  Miss  Ophelia  had  never  seen  him  in  this  mood 
before,  and  she  sat  perfectly  silent. 

“  I  declare  to  you,"  said  he,  suddenly  stopping  before  his 
cousin, — “  it's  no  sort  of  use  to  talk  or  to  feel  on  this  sub¬ 
ject,— but  I  declare  to  you,  there  have  been  times  when  I 
have  thought,  if  the  whole  country  would  sink  and  hide  all 
this  injustice  and  misery  from  the  light,  I  would  willingly 
sink  with  it.  When  I  have  been  traveling  up  and  down  on 
our  boats,  or  about  on  my  collecting  tours,  and  reflected  that 
every  brutal,  disgusting,  mean,  low-lived  fellow  I  met  was 
allowed  by  our  laws  to  become  absolute  despot  of  as  many 
men,  women,  and  children  as  he  could  cheat,  steal,  or  gamble 
money  enough  to  buy, — when  I  have  seen  such  men  in  actual 
ownership  of  helpless  children,  of  young  girls  and  women,  I 
have  been  ready  to  curse  my  country,  to  curse  the  human 
race! " 

“  Augustine!  Augustine!  "  said  Miss  Ophelia.  “  I'm  sure 
you've  said  enough.  I  never,  in  my  life,  heard  anything  like 
this,  even  at  the  North." 

“  At  the  North!  "  said  St.  Clare,  with  a  sudden  change  of 
expression,  and  resuming  something  of  his  habitual  careless 
tone.  “  Pooh!  your  Northern  folks  are  cold-blooded;  you  are 
cool  in  everything!  You  can't  begin  to  curse  up  hill  and 
down  as  we  cam,  when  we  get  fairly  at  it." 

6i  Welh  but  the  question  is - said  Miss  Ophelia. 


227 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY. 

**  Oh,  to  be  sure,  the  question  is, — and  a  deuce  of  a 
question  it  is!  How  came  you  in  this  state  of  sin  and  misery? 
Well,  I  shall  answer  in  the  good  old  words  you  used  to  teach 
me  Sundays.  I  came  so  by  ordinary  generation.  My  serv¬ 
ants  were  my  father’s,  and  what  is  more,  my  mother's;  and 
How  they  are  mine,  they  and  their  increase,  which  bids  fair 
to  be  a  pretty  considerable  item.  My  father,  you  know,  came 
first  from  New  England;  and  he  was  just  such  another  man 
as  your  father, — a  regular  old  Roman, —upright,  energetic, 
noble-minded,  with  an  iron  will.  Your  father  settled  down 
in  New  England,  to  rule  over  rocks  and  stones,  and  to  force 
an  existence  out  of  Nature;  and  mine  settled  in  Louisiana, 
to  rule  over  men  and  women,  and  force  existence  out  of 
them.  My  mother,”  said  St.  Clare,  getting  up,  and  walking 
to  a  picture  at  the  end  of  the  room,  and  gazing  upward 
with  a  face  fervent  with  veneration,  “  she  was  divine !  Don’t 
look  at  me  so!— you  know  what  I  mean!  She  probably  was 
of  mortal  birth;  but,  as  far  as  ever  1  could  observe,  there 
was  no  trace  of  any  human  weakness  or  error  about  her; 
and  everybody  that  lives  to  remember  her,  whether  bond  or 
free,  servant,  acquaintance,  relation,  all  say  the  same.  Why, 
cousin,  that  mother  has  been  all  that  has  stood  between  me 
and  utter  unbelief  for  years.  She  was  a  direct  embodiment 
and  personification  of  the  New  Testament, — a  living  fact, 
to  be  accounted  for,  and  to  be  accounted  for  in  no  other  way 
than  by  its  truth.  Oh,  mother!  mother!”  said  St.  Clare,  clasp¬ 
ing  his  hands,  in  a  sort  of  transport;  and  then  suddenly 
checking  himself,  he  came  back,  and  seating  himself  on  an 
ottoman,  he  wet  on: 

“  My  brother  and  I  were  twins;  and  they  say,  you  know, 
that  twins  ought  to  resemble  each  other;  but  we  were  in  all 
points  a  contrast.  He  had  black,  fiery  eyes,  coal-black  hair, 
a  strong,  fine  Roman  profile,  and  a  rich  brown  complexion. 
I  had  blue  eyes,  golden  hair,  a  Greek  outline,  and  fair  com¬ 
plexion,  He  was  active  and  observing,  I  dreamy  and  in¬ 
active.  He  was  generous  to  his  friends  and  equals,  but 
proud,  dominant,  overbearing  to  inferiors,  and  utterly  un¬ 
merciful  to  whatever  set  itself  up  against  him.  Truthful 
we  both  were,  he  from  pride  and  courage,  I  from,  a  sort  of 
abstract  ideality.  We  loved  each  other  about  as  boys  gen¬ 
erally  do,— off  and  on,  and  in  general;  he  was  my  father’s 
pet.  and  I  my  mother’s. 

“  There  was  a  morbid  sensitiveness  a&d  acuteness  of  fed 


I  §8  UNCLE  TOM’S  CABIN  J  0BS 

ing  in  me  on  all  possible  subjects,  of  which  he  and  my  father 
had  no  kind  of  understanding,  and  with  which  they  could 
have  no  possible  sympathy.  But  mother  did;  and  so,  when 
I  had  quarreled  with  Alfred,  and  father  looked  sternly  on 
me,  I  used  to  go  off  to  mother's  room,  and  sit  by  her.  I  re¬ 
member  just  how  she  used  to  look,  with  her  pale  cheeks, 
her  deep,  soft,  serious  eyes,  her  white  dress, — she  always  wore 
white;  and  I  used  to  think  of  her  whenever  I  read  in  Reve¬ 
lation  about  the  saints  that  were  arrayed  in  fine  linen,  clean 
and  white.  She  had  a  great  deal  of  genius  of  one  sort  and 
another,  particularly  in  music;  and  she  used  to  sit  at  her 
organ, playing  fine  old  majestic  music  of  the  Catholic  Church, 
and  singing  with  a  voice  more  like  an  angel  than  a  mortal 
woman;  and  I  would  lay  my  head  down  on  her  lap,  and  cry, 
and  dream,  and  feel,— oh,  immeasurably!— things  that  I  had 
no  language  to  say! 

“  In  those  days  this  matter  of  slavery  had  never  been  can¬ 
vassed  as  it  has  now;  nobody  dreamed  of  any  harm  in  it. 

“  My  father  was  a  born  aristocrat.  I  think,  in  some  pre¬ 
existent  state  he  must  have  been  in  the  higher  circle  of  spir¬ 
its,  and  brought  all  his  old  court  pride  along  with  him;  for 
it  was  ingrain,  bred  in  the  bone,  though  he  was  of  originally 
poor  and  not  in  any  way  of  noble  family.  My  brother  was  be¬ 
gotten  in  his  image. 

“  Now,  an  aristocrat,  you  know,  the  world  over,  has  no 
human  sympathies,  beyond  a  certain  line  in  society.  In 
England  the  line  is  in  one  place,  in  Burmah  in  another,  and 
in  America  in  another;  but  the  aristocrat  of  all  these  coun¬ 
tries  never  goes  over  it.  What  would  he  hardship  and  dis¬ 
tress  and  injustice  in  his  own  class,  is  a  cool  matter  of 
course  in  another  one.  My  father’s  dividing  line  was  that 
of  color.  Among  his  equals  never  was  a  man  more  just 
and  generous;  hut  he  considered  the  negro,  through  all 
possible  gradations  of  color,  as  an  intermediate  link  between 
man  and  animals,  and  graded  all  his  ideas  of  justice  or  gen¬ 
erosity  on  this  hypothesis.  I  suppose,  to  he  sure,  if  any¬ 
body  had  asked  him,  plump  and  fair,  whether  they  had  hu¬ 
man  immortal  souls,  he  might  have  hemmed  and  hawed,  and 
said  yes.  But  my  father  was  not  a  man  much  troubled  with 
spiritualism;  religious  sentiment  he  had  none,  beyond  a 
veneration  for  God,  as  decidedly  the  head  of  the  upper 
classes. 

“  Well,  my  father  worked  some  five  hundred  negroes;  hi 


UPiS  AMONO  THIS  LOWLY. 


22$ 


was  an  inflexible,  drivings  punctilious  business  man;  every¬ 
thing  was  to  move  by  system,— to  be  sustained  with  unfailing 
accuracy  and  precision,  Now,  if  you  take  into  account  that 
all  this  was  to  be  worked  out  by  a  set  of  lazy,  twaddling, 
shiftless  laborers,  who  had  grown  up,  all  their  lives,  in  the 
absence  of  every  possible  motive  to  learn  how  to  do  any¬ 
thing  but  ‘  shirk/  as  you  Vermonters  say,  you’ll  see  that 
there  might  naturally  be,  on  his  plantation,  a  great  many 
things  that  looked  horrible  and  distressing  to  a  sensitive 
child  like  me. 

“  Besides  all,  he  had  an  overseer,— a  great  tall,  slabsided, 
two-fisted  renegade  son  of  Vermont  (begging  your  pardon), 
who  had  gone  through  a  regular  apprenticeship  in  hardness 
and  brutality,  and  taken  his  degree  to  be  admitted  to  prac¬ 
tice.  My  mother  could  never  endure  him,  nor  I,  but  he 
obtained  an  entire  ascendency  over  my  father;  and  this  man 
was  the  absolute  despot  of  the  estate. 

“  I  was  a  little  fellow  then,  but  1  had  the  same  love  that 
I  have  now  for  all  kinds  of  human  things,— a  kind  of  pas¬ 
sion  for  the  study  of  humanity,  come  in  what  shape  it  would. 
I  was  found  in  the  cabins  and  among  the  field-hands  a  great 
deal,  and,  of  course,  was  a  great  favorite;  and  all  sorts  of 
complaints  and  grievances  were  breathed  in  my  ear;  and  I 
told  them  to  mother,  and  we  between  us  formed  a  sort  of 
committee  for  a  redress  of  grievances.  We  hindered  and  re¬ 
pressed  a  great  deal  of  cruelty,  and  congratulated  ourselves 
on  doing  a  vast  deal  of  good,  till,  as  often  happens,  my  zeal 
overacted.  Stubbs  complained  to  my  father  that  he  couldn’t 
manage  the  hands  and  must  resign  his  position.  Father 
was  a  fond,  indulgent  husband,  but  a  man  that  never  flinched 
from,  anything  that  he  thought  necessary;  and  so  he  put  down 
his  foot,  like  a  rock,  between  us  and  the  field-hands.  He 
told  my  mother,  in  language  perfectly  respectful  and  defer¬ 
ential,  but  quite  explicit,  that  over  the  house-servants  she 
should  be  entire  mistress,  but  that  with  the  field-hands  he 
could  allow  no  interference.  He  revered  and  respected  her 
above  all  living  beings;  but  he  would  have  said  it  all  the 
same  to  the  Virgin  Mary  herself,  if  she  had  come  in  the 
way  of  his  system. 

“  I  used  sometimes  to  hear  my  mother  reasoning  cases  with 
him,— endeavoring  to  excite  his  sympathies.  He  would  listen 
to  the  most  pathetic  appeals  with  the  most  discouraging 

politeness  and  equanimity.  ‘  It  all  resolves  itself  into  this/ 


230  UHCLE  tom’s  cab m  ;  os, 

he  would  Bay;  ‘must  I  part  with  Stubbs,  or  keep  haa? 
Stubbs  is  the  soul  of  punctuality,  honesty,  and  efficiency, — 
a  thorough  business  hand,  and  as  humane  as  the  general 
run.  We  can’t  have  perfection;  and  if  I  keep  him,  I  must 
sustain  his  administration  as  a  whole >  even  if  there  are,  now 
and  then,  things  that  are  exceptionable.  All  government 
includes  some  necessary  hardness.  General  rules  will  bear 
hard  on  particular  cases/  This  last  maxim  my  father  seemed 
to  consider  a  settler  in  most  alleged  cases  of  cruelty.  After 
he  had  said  that ,  he  commonly  drew  up  his  feet  on  the  sofa, 
like  a  man  that  has  disposed  of  a  business,  and  betook  him¬ 
self  to  a  nap,  or  the  newspaper,  as  the  case  might  be. 

“  The  fact  is,  my  father  showed  the  exact  sort  of  talent  for 
a  statesman.  He  could  have  divided  Poland  as  easily  as  an 
orange,  or  trod  on  Ireland  as  quietly  and  systematically  as 
any  man  living.  At  last  my  mother  gave  up  in  despair.  It 
never  will  be  known,  till  the  last  account,  what  noble  and 
sensitive  natures  like  hers  have  felt,  cast,  utterly  helpless, 
into  what  seems  to  them  an  abyss  of  injustice  and  cruelty, 
and  which  seems  so  to  nobody  about  them.  It  has  been  an 
age  of  long  sorrow  of  such  natures,  in  such  a  hell-begotten 
sort  of  world  as  ours.  What  remained  for  her,  but  to  train 
her  children  in  her  own  views  and  sentiments?  Well,  after 
all  you  say  about  training,  children  will  grow  up  substan¬ 
tially  what  they  are  by  nature,  and  only  that.  From  the 
cradle  Alfred  was.  an  aristocrat;  and  as  he  grew  up,  instinct¬ 
ively  all  his  sympathies  and  all  his  reasonings  were  in  that 
line,  and  all  mothers  exhortations  went  to  the  winds.  As 
to  me,  they  sunk  deep  into  me.  She  never  contradicted,  in 
form,  anything  that  my  father  said,  or  seemed  directly  to 
differ  from  him;  but  she  impressed,  burnt  into  my  very  soul, 
with  all  the  force  of  her  deep,  earnest  nature,  an  idea  of 
the  dignity  and  wrorth  of  the  meanest  human  soul.  I  have 
looked  in  her  face  with  solemn  awe  when  she  would  point 
up  to  the  stars  in  the  evening  and  say  to  me,  ‘See  there, 
Auguste,  the  poorest,  meanest  soul  on  our  place  will  be  liv¬ 
ing  when  all  these  stars  are  gone  forever,— will  live  as  long 
as  God  lives! J 

“  She  had  some  fine  old  paintings;  one,  in  particular,  of 
Jesus  healing  a  blind  man.  They  were  very  fine,  and  used 
to  impress  me  strongly.  ‘  See  there,  Auguste/  she  would  say; 
‘the  blind  man  was  a  beggar,  poor  and  loathsome:  there¬ 
fore,  He  would  not  heal  him  afar  off!  He  called  him  to  Him, 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWL*.  2SI 

and  put  His  hands  on  him \!  Remember  this,  my  boy/  If 
I  had  lived  to  grow  up  under  her  care,  she  might  have  stimu¬ 
lated  ine  to  I  know  not  what  of  enthusiasm.  I  might  have 
been  a  saint,  reformer,  martyr, —but,  alas!  alas!  I  went  from 
her  when  I  was  only  thirteen,  and  I  never  saw  her  again!  ” 

St.  Clare  rested  his  head  on  his  hands,  and  did  not  speak 
for  some  minutes.  After  a  while  he  looked  up,  and  went  cn: 

“  What  poor,  mean  trash  this  whole  business  of  human 
virtue  is!  A  mere  matter,  for  the  most  part,  of  latitude  and 
longitude,  and  geographical  position,  acting  with  natural 
temperament.  The  greater  part  is  nothing  but  an  accident! 
Your  father,  for  example,  settles  in  Vermont,  in  a  town 
where  all  are,  in  fact,  free  and  equal;  becomes  a  regular 
church-member  and  deacon,  and  in  due  time  joins  an  Aboli¬ 
tion  society,  and  thinks  us  all  little  better  than  heathens. 
Yet  he  is,  for  all  the  world,  in  constitution  and  habit,  a  du¬ 
plicate  of  my  father.  I  can  see  it  leaking  out  in  fifty  differ¬ 
ent  ways,— just  that  same  strong,  overbearing,  dominant 
spirit.  You  know  very  well  how  impossible  it  is  to  persuade 
some  of  the  folks  in  your  village  that  Squire  Sinclair  does 
not  feel  above  them.  The  fact  is,  though  he  has  fallen  on 
democratic  times,  and  embraced  a  democratic  theory,  he  is 
to  the  heart  an  aristocrat,  as  much  as  my  father,  who  ruled 
over  five  or  six  hundred  slaves.” 

Miss  Ophelia  felt  rather  disposed  to  cavil  at  this  picture, 
and  was  laying  down  her  knitting  to  begin,  but  St.  Clare 
stopped  her. 

“  Now,  X  know  every  word  you  are  going  to  say.  X  do  not 
say  they  were  alike,  in  fact.  One  fell  into  a  condition  where 
everything  acted  against  the  natural  tendency,  and  the  other 
where  everything  acted  for  it;  and  so  one  turned  out  a  pretty 
Willful,  stout,  overbearing  old  democrat,  and  the  other  a 
willful,  stout  old  despot.  If  both  had  owned  plantations  in 
Louisiana,  they  would  have  been  as  like  as  two  old  bullets 
cast  in  the  same  mold.” 

“  What  an  undutiful  boy  you  are!  ”  said  Miss  Ophelia. 

“  X  don’t  mean  them  any  disrespect,”  said  St.  Clare.  “  You 
know  reverence  is  not  my  forte.  But,  to  go  back  to  my 
history: 

“  When  father  died  he  left  the  whole  property  to  us  twin 
boys,  to  be  divided  as  we  should  agree.  There  does  not 
breathe  on  God’s  earth  a  nobler  souied,  more  generous  fel¬ 
low  than  Alfred,  in  all  that  concerns  his  equals;  and  we  got 


23S  tracM  tom’s  cab m  ;  ob, 

on  admirably  with  this  property  question,  without  a  single 
unbrotherly  word  or  feeling.  We  undertook  to  work  the 
plantation  together;  and  Alfred,  whose  outward  life  and 
capabilities  had  double  the  strength  of  mine,  became  an  en¬ 
thusiastic  planter,  and  a  wonderfully  successful  one. 

“  But  two  years5  trial  satisfied  me  that  I  could  not  be  a 
partner  in  that  matter.  To  have  a  great  gang  of  seven  hun¬ 
dred,  whom  I  could  not  know  personally,  or  feel  any  individ¬ 
ual  interest  in,  bought  and  driven,  housed,  fed,  worked  like 
so  many  horned  cattle,  strained  up  to  military  precision,— 
the  question  of  how  little  of  life’s  commonest  enjoyments 
would  keep  them  in  working  order  being  a  constantly  recur¬ 
ring  problem,  the  necessity  of  drivers  and  overseers,* — the 
ever-necessary  whip,  first,  last,  and  only  argument, — the 
whole  thing  was  insufferably  disgusting  and  loathsome  to 
me;  and  when  I  thought  of  my  mother’s  estimate  of  one  poor 
human  soul,  it  became  even  frightful! 

“  It’s  all  nonsense  to  talk  to  me  about  slaves  enjoying  all 
this!  To  this  day  I  have  no  patience  with  the  unutterable 
trash  that  some  of  your  patronizing  Northerners  have  made 
up,  as  in  their  zeal  to  apologize  for  our  sins.  We  all  know 
better.  Tell  me  that  any  man  living  wants  to  work  all  his 
days,  from  day-dawn  till  dark,  under  the  constant  eye  of  a 
master,  without  the  power  of  putting  forth  one  irresponsible 
volition,  on  the  same  dreary,  monotonous,  unchanging  toil, 
and  all  for  two  pairs  of  pantaloons  and  a  pair  of  shoes  a 
year,  with  enough  food  and  shelter  to  keep  him  in  working 
order!  Any  man  who  thinks  that  human  beings  can,  as  a 
general  thing,  be  made  about  as  comfortable  that  way  as  any 
other,  X  wish  he  might  try  it.  I’d  buy  the  dog,  and  work  him, 
with  a  clear  conscience!  ” 

“  X  always  have  supposed,”  said  Miss  Ophelia,  “  that  you, 
all  of  you,  approved  of  these  things,  and  thought  them  right , 
— according  to  Scripture.” 

“  Humbug!  We  are  not  quite  reduced  to  that  yet.  Al¬ 
fred,  who  is  as  determined  a  despot  as  ever  walked,  does  not 
pretend  to  this  kind  of  defense; — -no,  he  stands,  high  and 
haughty,  on  that  good  old  respectable  ground,  the  right  of 
the  strongest;  and  he  says,  and  X  think  quite  sensibly,  that 
the  American  planter  is  c  only  doing  in  another  form,  what 
the  English  aristocracy  and  capitalists  are  doing  by  the 
lower  classes;  ’  that  is,  X  take  it,  appropriating  them,  body 
and  bone,  soul  and  spirit,  to  their  use  and  convenience.  He 


LIFE  AMONG!-  THU  LOWLY. 

defends  both,— and  I  think,  at  least,  consistently.  He  says 
that  there  can  be  no  high  civilization  without  enslavement 
of  :  he  masses,  either  nominal  or  real.  There  must,  he  says, 
be  a  lower  class,  given  up  to  physical  toil  and  confined  to 
an  animal  nature;  and  a  higher  one  thereby  acquires  leisure 
and  wealth  for  a  more  expanded  intelligence  and  improve¬ 
ment,  and  becomes  the  directing  soul  of  the  lower.  So  he 
reasons,  because,  as  I  said,  he  is  born  an  aristocrat ;— so  I 
don’t  believe,  because  I  was  born  a  democrat.” 

“  How  in  the  world  can  the  two  things  be  compared?” 
said  Miss  Ophelia.  “  The  English  laborer  is  not  sold,  traded, 
parted  from  his  family,  whipped.” 

“  He  is  as  much  at  the  will  of  his  employer  as  if  he  were 
sold  to  him.  The  slave  owner  can  whip  his  refractory  slave 
to  death,— the  capitalist  can  starve  him  to  death.  As  to 
family  security,  it  is  hard  to  say  which  is  the  worst,  to  have 
one’s  children  sold,  or  see  them  starve  to  death  at  home.” 

“  But  it’s  no  kind  of  apology  for  slavery,  to  prove  that  it 
isn’t  worse  than  some  other  bad  thing.” 

“  I  didn’t  give  it  for  one, — nay,  I’ll  say  besides,  that  ours 
is  the  more  bold  and  palpable  infringement  of  human  rights; 
actually  buying  a  man  up  like  a  horse,— looking  at  his  teeth, 
cracking  his  joints,  and  trying  his  paces,  and  then  paying 
down  for  him,— having  speculators,  breeders,  traders,  ancl 
brokers  in  human  bodies  and  souls, — sets  the  thing  before 
the  eyes  of  the  civilized  world  in  a  more  tangible  form, 
though  the  thing  done  be,  after  all,  in  its  nature,  the  same; 
that  is,  appropriating  one  set  of  human  beings  to  the  use 
and  improvement  of  another,  without  any  regard  to  their 
own.” 

“  I  never  thought  of  the  matter  in  this  light,”  said  Miss 
Ophelia. 

“Well,  I’ve  traveled  in  England  some,  and  I’ve  looked 
over  a  good  many  documents  as  to  the  state  of  their  lower 
classes;  and  I  really  think  there  is  no  denying  Alfred,  when 
he  says  that  his  slaves  are  better  off  than  a  large  class  of  the 
population  of  England.  You  see,  you  must  not  infer,  from 
what  I  have  told  you,  that  Alfred  is  what  is  called  a  hard 
master;  for  he  isn’t.  He  is  despotic,  and  unmerciful  to  in¬ 
subordination;  he  would  shoot  a  fellow  down  with  as  little 
remorse  as  he  would  shoot  a  buck,  if  he  opposed  him.  But, 
in  general,  he  takes  a  sort  of  pride  in  having  his  slaves  com¬ 
fortably  fed  and  accommodated* 


284' 


UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN;  OB, 


“  When  1  was  with  him  I  insisted  that  he  should  do  some¬ 
thing  for  their  instruction;  and,  to  please  me,  he  did  get  a 
chaplain,  and  used  to  have  them  catechised  Sunday,  though, 
I  believe,  in  his  heart,  that  he  thought  it  would  do  about  as 
much  good  as  to  set  a  chaplain  over  his  dogs  and  horses. 
And  the  fact  is,  that  a  mind  stupefied  and  animalized  by 
every  bad  influence  from,  the  hour  of  birth,  spending  the 
whole  of  every  week-day  in  unreflecting  toil,  cannot  be  done 
much  with  by  a  few  hours  on  Sunday.  The  teachers  of  Sun¬ 
day-schools  among  the  manufacturing  population  of  Eng¬ 
land,  and  among  plantation  hands  in  our  country,  could 
perhaps  testify  to  the  same  result,  there  and  here .  Yet  seme 
striking  exceptions  there  are  among  us,  from  the  fact  that 
the  negro  is  naturally  more  impressible  to  religious  senti¬ 
ment  than  the  white.” 

“  Well,”  said  Miss  Ophelia,  “  how  came  you  to  give  up 
your  plantation  life?” 

“  Well,  we  jogged  on  together  some  time,  till  Alfred  saw 
plainly  that  I  was  no  planter.  He  thought  it  absurd  after 
he  had  reformed,  and  altered,  and  improved  everywhere,  to 
suit  my  notions,  that  I  still  remained  unsatisfied.  The  fact 
was,  it  was  after  all  the  thing  that  I  hated,— the  using  these 
men  and  women,  the  perpetuation  of  all  this  ignorance,  bru¬ 
tality,  and  vice,— just  to  make  money  for  me! 

“  Besides,  I  was  always  interfering  in  the  details.  Being 
myself  one  of  the  laziest  of  mortals,  I  had  altogether  too 
much  fellow-feeling  for  the  lazy;  and  when  poor,  shiftless 
dogs  put  stones  at  the  bottom  of  their  cotton  baskets  to  make 
them  weigh  heavier,  or  filled  their  sacks  with  dirt,  with  cot¬ 
ton  at  the  top,  it  seemed  so  exactly  what  I  should  do  if  I  were 
they,  I  couldn’t  and  wouldn’t  have  them  flogged  for  it.  Well, 
of  course,  there  was  an  end  of  plantation  discipline;  and 
Alf  and  I  came  to  about  the  same  point  that  I  and  my  re¬ 
spected  father  did  years  before.  So  he  told  me  that  I  was  a 
womanish  sentimentalist,  and  would  never  do  for  business 
life;  and  advised  me  to  take  the  bank  stock  and  the  New 
Orleans  family  mansion,  and  go  to  writing  poetry,  and  let 
him  manage  the  plantation.  So  we  parted,  and  I  came  here.” 

“  But  why  didn’t  you  free  your  slaves?  ” 

“  Well,  I  wasn’t  up  to  that.  To  hold  them  as  tools  for 
money-making,  I  could  not;— have  them  to  help  spend 
money,  you  knov/,  didn’t  look  quite  so  ugly  to  me.  Some 
of  them  were  old  house-servants,  to  whom  I  was  much  at** 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY. 


%u 


tached;  and  the  younger  ones  were  children  to  the  old.  All 
were  well  satisfied  to  be  as  they  were/7  He  paused,  and 
walked  reflectively  up  and  down  the  room. 

“  There  was,”  said  St.  Clare,  “  a  time  in  my  life  when  I 
had  plans  and  hopes  of  doing  something  in  this  world,  more 
than  to  float  and  drift.  I  had  vague,  indistinct  yearnings 
to  be  a  sort  of  emancipator,— to  free  my  native  land  from 
this  spot  and  stain.  All  young  men  have  had  such  fever-fits, 
I  suppose,  sometime,— but  then- - ” 

“Why  didn’t  you?”  said  Miss  Ophelia; — “you  ought  not 
to  put  your  hand  to  the  plow,  and  look  back.” 

“  Oh,  well,  things  didn’t  go  with  me  as  I  expected,  and  I 
got  the  despair  of  living  that  Solomon  did.  I  suppose  it 
was  a  necessary  incident  to  wisdom  in  us  both;  but,  some¬ 
how  or  other,  instead  of  being  actor  and  regenerator  in  so¬ 
ciety,  I  became  a  piece  of  driftwood,  and  have  been  floating 
and  eddying  about,  ever  since.  Alfred  scolds  me,  every 
time  we  meet;  and  he  has  the  better  of  me,  I  grant, — for  he 
really  does  something;  his  life  is  a  logical  result  of  his  opin¬ 
ions,  and  mine  is  a  contemptible  non  sequitur .” 

“  My  dear  cousin,  can  you  be  satisfied  with  such  a  way  of 
spending  your  probation?  ” 

“  Satisfied?  Was  I  not  just  telling  you  that  I  despised  it? 
But,  then,  to  come  back  to  this  point,— we  were  on  this  lib¬ 
eration  business.  I  don’t  think  my  feelings  about  slavery 
are  peculiar.  I  find  many  men,  who,  in  their  hearts,  think 
of  it  just  as  I  do.  The  land  groans  under  it;  and,  bad  as  it  is 
for  the  slave,  it  is  worse,  if  anything,  for  the  master.  It  takes 
no  spectacles  to  see  that  a  great  class  of  vicious,  improvident* 
degraded  people  among  us  are  an  evil  to  us,  as  well  as  to 
themselves.  The  capitalist  and  aristocrat  of  England  cannot 
feel  that  as  we  do,  because  they  do  not  mingle  with  the  class 
they  degrade  as  we  do.  They  are  in  our  houses;  they  are 
the  associates  of  our  children,  and  they  form  their  minds 
faster  than  we  can;  for  they  are  a  race  that  children  always 
will  cling  to  and  assimilate  with.  If  Eva,  now,  was  not  more 
angel  than  ordinary,  she  wmuld  be  ruined.  We  might  as  well 
allow  the  smallpox  to  run  among  them,  and  think  our  chil¬ 
dren  would  not  take  it,  as  to  let  them  be  uninatructed  and 
vicious,  and  think  our  children  would  not  be  affected  by 
that.  Yet  our  law^s  positively  and  utterly  forbid  any  efficient 
general  educational  system,  and  they  do  it  wisely,  too;  for 
Just  begin  and  thoroughly  educate  one  generation,  and  th# 


whole  thing  would  be  blown  sky-high.  If  we  did  not  give 
them  liberty,  they  would  take  it*'** 

•“  And  what  do  you  think  will  be  the  end  of  this?”  said 

Miss  Ophelia. 

“I  don't1  know.  One  thing  is  certain, — that  there  is  a 
mustering  among  the  masses,  the  world  over;  and  there  is  a 
dies  irw  coming  on,  sooner  or  later.  The  same  thing  is  work¬ 
ing  in  Europe,  in  England,  and  in  this  country.  My  mother 
used  to  tell  me  of  a  millennium  that  was  coming,  when  Christ 
should  reign,  and  all  men  should  be  free  and  happy.  And 
she  taught  me,  when  I  was  a  boy,  to  pray,  <  Thy  kingdom 
come/  Sometimes  I  think  all  this  sighing,  and  groaning, 
and  stirring  among  the  dry  bones  foretells  what  she  used 
to  tell  me  was  coming.  But  who  may  abide  the  day  of  His 
appearing?  ” 

“  Augustine,  sometimes  I  think  you  are  not  far  from  the 
kingdom,”  said  Miss  Ophelia,  laying  down  her  knitting,  and 
looking  anxiously  at  her  cousin. 

“  Thank  you  for  your  good  opinion;  but  it's  up  and  down 
with  me, — up  to  heaven's  gate  in  theory, — *  down  in  earth's 
dust  in  practice.  But  there's  the  tea-bell, — do  let's  go,— 
and  don't  say  now,  I  haven't  had  one  downright  serious  talk, 
for  once  in  my  life.” 

At  table,  Marie  alluded  to  the  incident  of  Prue.  “  I  sup¬ 
pose  you'll  think,  cousin,”  she  said,  “  that  we  are  all  bar¬ 
barians.” 

“I  think  that's  a  barbarous  thing,”  said  Miss  Ophelia, 
“  but  I  don't  think  you  are  all  barbarians.” 

“Well,  now,”  said  Marie,  “I  know  it's  impossible  to  get 
along  with  some  of  these  creatures.  They  are  so  bad  they 
ought  not  to  live.  I  don't  feel  a  particle  of  sympathy  for 
such  cases.  If  they'd  only  behave  themselves  it  would  not 
happen.” 

“  But,  mamma,”  said  Eva,  “  the  poor  creature  was  un- 
happy;  that's  what  made  her  drink.” 

“Oh,  fiddlesticks!  as  if  that  were  any  excuse!  I'm  un¬ 
happy,  very  often.  I  presume,”  she  said  pensively,  “  that 
I've  had  greater  trials  than  ever  she  had.  It's  just  because 
they  are  so  bad.  There’s  some  of  them  that  you  cannot 
break  in  by  any  kind  of  severity.  I  remember  father  had  a 
man  that  was  so  lazy  he  would  run  away  just  to  get  rid  of 
work,  and  lie  round  in  the  swamps,  stealing  and  doing  all 
gorts  of  horrid  things.  That  man  was  caught  and  whipped^ 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY. 


m 

time  and  again,  and  it  never  did  him  any  good;  and  the  last 
time,  he  crawled  off,  though  he  couldn't  but  just  go,  and  died 
in  the  swamp.  There  was  no  sort  of  reason  for  it,  for  father's 
hands  were  always  treated  kindly." 

“  I  broke  a  fellow  in  once,"  said  St.  Clare,  “  that  all  the 
overseers  and  masters  had  tried  their  hands  on  in  vain." 

“  You?  "  said  Marie;  “  well  I'd  be  glad  to  know  when  you 
ever  did  anything  of  the  sort." 

“  Well,  he  was  a  powerful,  gigantic  fellow, — a  native-born 
African;  and  lie  appeared  to  have  the  rude  instinct  of  free¬ 
dom  in  him  to  an  uncommon  degree.  He  was  a  regular 
African  lion.  They  called  him  Scipio.  Nobody  could  do 
anything  with  him;  and  he  was  sold  round  from  overseer 
to  overseer,  till  at  last  Alfred  bought  him,  because  he 
thought  he  could  manage  him.  Well,  one  day  he  knocked 
down  the  overseer,  and  was  fairly  off  into  the  swamps.  I 
was  on  a  visit  to  All's  plantation,  for  it  was  after  we  had  dis¬ 
solved  partnership.  Alfred  was  greatly  exasperated;  but  I 
told  him  that  it  was  his  own  fault,  and  laid  him  any  wager 
that  I  could  break  the  man;  and  finally  it  was  agreed  that 
if  I  caught  him,  I  should  have  him  to  experiment  on.  So 
they  mustered  out  a  party  of  some  six  or  seven,  with  guns 
and  dogs,  for  the  hunt.  People,  you  know,  can  get  up  just  as 
much  enthusiasm  in  hunting  a  man  as  a  deer,  if  it  is  only 
customary;  in  fact,  I  got  a  little  excited  myself,  though  I  had 
only  put  in  as  a  sort  of  mediator,  in  case  he  was  caught. 

“  W ell,  the  clogs  bayed  and  howled,  and  we  rode  and 
scampered,  and  finally  we  started  him.  He  ran  and  bounded 
like  a  buck,  and  kept  us  well  in  the  rear  for  some  time;  but 
at  last  he  got  caugh^  in  an  impenetrable  thicket  of  cane; 
then  he  turned  to  bay,  and  I  tell  you  he  fought  the  dogs 
right  gallantly.  He  dashed  them  to  right  and  left,  and  ac¬ 
tually  killed  three  of  them  with  only  his  naked  fists,  when 
a  shot  from  a  gun  brought  him  down,  and  he  fell,  wounded 
and  bleeding,  almost  at  my  feet.  The  poor  fellow  looked  up 
at  rne  with  manhood  and  despair  both  in  his  eye.  I  kept  back 
the  dogs  and  the  party,  as  they  came  pressing  up,  and  claimed 
him  as  my  prisoner.  It  was  all  I  could  do  to  keep  them 
from  shooting  him,  in  the  flush  of  success;  but  I  persisted  in 
my  bargain,  and  Alfred  sold  him  to  me.  Well,  I  took  him 
in  hand,  and  in  one  fortnight  I  had  him  tamed  down  as  sub¬ 
missive  and  tractable  as  heart  could  desire." 

“  What  in  the  world  did  you  do  to  him?  "  said  Marie. 


23§  UNCLE  tom’s  CABIN  ;  0B, 

“  Well,  it  was  quite  a  simple  process.  I  took  Mm  to  my 
own  room,  had  a  good  bed  made  lor  him,  dressed  his  wounds; 
and  tended  him  myself  until  he  got  fairly  on  his  feet  again. 
And,  in  process  of  time,  I  had  free  papers  made  out  for  him* 
and  told  him  he  might  go  where  he  liked.” 

“And  did  he  go?”  said  Miss  Ophelia. 

“  No.  The  foolish  fellow  tore  the  paper  in  two  and  ab¬ 
solutely  refused  to  leave  me.  I  never  had  a  braver,  better 
fellow,  as  trusty  and  true  as  steel.  He  embraced  Christianity 
afterward,  and  became  as  gentle  as  a  child.  He  used  to  over¬ 
see  my  place  on  the  lake,  and  did  it  capitally,  too.  I  lost 
him  in  the  first  cholera  season.  In  fact,  he  laid  down  his  life 
for  me.  For  I  was  sick,  almost  to  death;  and  when,  through 
the  panic,  everybody  else  fled,  Scipio  worked  for  me  like  a 
giant,  and  actually  brought  me  back  into  life  again.  But, 
poor  fellow;  he  was  taken,  right  after,  and  there  was  no  sav¬ 
ing  him.  I  never  felt  anybody’s  loss  more.” 

Eva  had  come  gradually  nearer  and  nearer  to  her  father, 
as  he  told  the  story,— her  small  lips  apart,  her  eyes  wide  and 
earnest  with  absorbing  interest. 

As  he  finished  she  suddenly  threw  her  arms  around  his 
neck,  burst  into  tears,  and  sobbed  convulsively. 

“  Eva,  dear  child!  what  is  the  matter?  ”  said  St.  Clare, 
as  the  child’s  small  frame  trembled  and  shook  with  the  vio¬ 
lence  of  her  feelings.  “  This  child,”  he  added,  “  ought  not 
to  hear  any  of  this  kind  of  thing, — she’s  nervous.” 

“  No,  papa,  I’m  not  nervous,”  said  Eva,  controlling  her¬ 
self  suddenly  with  a  strength  of  resolution  singular  in  such 
a  child.  “  I’m  not  nervous,  but  these  things  sink  into  my 
heart” 

“What  do  you  mean,  Eva?” 

“  I  can’t  tell  you,  papa.  I  think  a  great  many  thoughts* 
Perhaps  some  day  I  shall  tell  you.” 

“  Well,  think  away,  dear, — only  don’t  cry  and  worry  your 
papa,”  said  St.  Clare.  “  Look  here,— see  what  a  beautiful 
peach  I  have  got  for  you!  ” 

Eva  took  it,  and  smiled,  though  there  was  still  a  nervous 
twitching  about  the  corners  of  her  mouth. 

“Come  look  at  the  gold-fish,”  said  St.  Clare,  taking  her 
hand  and  stepping  onto  the  veranda.  A  few  moments  and 
merry  laughs  were  heard  through  the  silken  curtains,  as 
Eva  and  St.  Clare  were  pelting  each  other  with  roses,  and 
chasing  >ach  other  among  the  alleys  of  the  court 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY,  939 

There  is  danger  that  our  humble  friend  Tom  be  neglected 
amid  the  adventures  of  the  higher  born;  but  if  our  readers 
will  accompany  us  up  to  a  little  loft  over  the  stable*  they 
may  perhaps*  learn  a  little  of  his  affairs.  It  was  a  decent 
room*  containing  a  bed*  a  chair,  and  a  small*  rough  stand* 
where  lay  Tom’s  Bible  and  hymn-book;  and  where  he  sits* 
at  present*  with  his  slate  before  him*  intent  on  something 
that  seems  to  cost  him  a  great  deal  of  anxious  thought. 

The  fact  was  that  Tom’s  home-yearnings  had  become  so 
strong  that  he  had  begged  a  sheet  of  writing-paper  of  Eva 
and*  mustering  up  all  his  small  stock  of  literary  attainment 
acquired  by  Mas’r  George’s  instructions,  he  conceived  the 
bold  idea  of  writing  a  letter;  and  he  was  busy  now*  on  his 
slate*  getting  out  his  first  draft.  Tom  was  in  a  good  deal  of 
trouble*  for  the  forms  of  some  of  the  letters  he  had  forgotten 
entirely;  and  of  what  he  did  remember*  he  did  not  know  ex¬ 
actly  which  to  use.  And  while  he  was  working*  and  breath¬ 
ing  very  hard*  in  his  earnestness*  Eva  alighted*  like  a  bird* 
on  the  round  of  his  chair  behind  him,  and  peeped  over  his 
shoulder. 

“  Oh*  Uncle  Tom!  what  funny  things  you  an  making 

there.” 

“  Tin  trying  to  write  to  my  poor  old  woman*  Miss  Eva* 
and  my  little  chil’en,”  said  Tom*  drawing  the  back  of  his 
hand  over  his  eyes;  “but*  somehow*  I’m  ’feared  I  shan’t 
make  it  out.” 

“  I  wish  I  could  help  you*  Tom!  I’ve  learnt  to  write  some. 
Last  year  I  could  make  all  the  letters*  but  I’m  afraid  I’ve 

forgotten.” 

So  Eva  put  her  little  golden  head  close  to  his*  and  the 
two  commenced  a  grave  and  anxious  discussion,  each  one 
equally  earnest*  and  about  equally  ignorant;  and*  with  a  deal 
of  consulting  and  advising  over  every  word*  the  composition 
began*  as  they  both  felt  very  sanguine*  to  look  quite  like 
writing. 

“  Yes*  Uncle  Tom*  it  really  begins  to  look  beautiful,”  said 
Eva*  gazing  delightedly  on  it.  “  How  pleased  your  wife  ’ll 
be*  and  the  poor  little  children!  Oh*  it’s  a  shame  you  ever 
had  to  go  away  from  them!  I  mean  to  ask  papa  to  let  yon 

go  back*  sometime.” 

“  Missis  said  that  she  would  send  down  money  for  me 
as  soon  as  they  could  get  it  together*”  said  Tom.  “  I’m 
*spectin£  she  will.  Young  Mas’r  George*  he  said  he’d  com§ 


■94C  UNCLE  TOM’S  •  CABOT  5  -0E* 

for  me;  and  he  gave  me  this  yer  dollar  as  a  sign;  ^  and  Tom 
drew  from  under  his  clothes  the  precious  dollar. 

“  Oh,  he’ll  certainly  come,  then!”  said  Eva.  “  I’m  so 
glad!  ” 

“  And  I  wanted  to  send  a  letter,  you  know,  to  let  ’em  know 
whar  I  was,  and  tell  poor  Chloe  that  I  was  well  off,— ’cause 
she  felt  so  drefful,  poor  soul!  ” 

“  I  say,  Tom!  ”  said  St.  Clare’s  voice,  coming  in  the  door 
at  this  moment. 

Tom  and  Eva  both  started. 

“  What’s  here?  ”  said  St.  Clare,  coming  up  and  looking  at 
the  slate. 

“  Oh,  it’s  Tom’s  letter.  I’m  helping  him  to  write  it,”  said 
Eva;  “  isn’t  it  nice?  ” 

■u  I  wouldn’t  discourage  either  of  you,”  said  St.  Clare, 
“  but  I  rather  think,  Tom,  you’d  better  get  me  to  write  your 
letter  for  you.  I’ll  do  it  when  I  come  home  from  my  ride.” 

“  It’s  very  important  he  should  write,”  said  Eva,  “  he- 
cause  his  mistress  is  going  to  send  down  money  to  redeem 
him,  you  know,  papa;  he  told  me  they  told  him  so.” 

St.  Clare  thought,  in  his  heart,  that  this  was  probably  only 
one  of  those  things  which  good-natured  owners  say  to  their 
servants  to  alleviate  their  horror  of  being  sold,  without  any 
intentions  of  fulfilling  the  expectation  thus  excited.  But  he 
did  not  make  any  audible  comment  upon  it,— only  ordered 
Tom  to  get  the  horses  out  for  a  ride. 

Tom’s  letter  was  written  in  due  form  for  him  that  evening, 
and  safely  lodged  in  the  post-office. 

Miss  Ophelia  still  persevered  in  her  labors  in  the  house¬ 
keeping  line.  It  was  universally  agreed  among  all  the  house¬ 
hold,  from  Dinah  down  to  the  youngest  urchin,  that  Miss 
Ophelia  was  decidedly  “  curis,” — a  term  by  which  a  Southern 
servant  implies  that  his  or  her  betters  don’t  exactly  suit 
him. 

The  higher  circle  in  the  family — to  wit,  Adolph,  Jane, 
and  Rosa— agreed  that  she  was  no  lady;— ladies  never  kept 
working  about  as  she  did;— that  she  had  no  air  at  all;  and 
they  were  surprised  that  she  should  he  of  any  relation  to  the 
St.  Clares.  Even  Marie  declared  that  it  was  absolutely  fa¬ 
tiguing  to  see  Cousin  Ophelia  always  so  busy.  And,  in  fact, 
Miss  Ophelia’s  industry  was  so  incessant  as  to  lay  some  foun¬ 
dation  for  the  complaint.  She  sewed  and  stitched  away  from 
daylight  till  dark,  as  with  the  energy  of  one  who  is  pressed 


MFB  AMONG  THE-  LOW! 


Mi 

en  by  some  immediate  urgency;  and  'then,  when  the  light 
faded  and  the  work  was  folded  away,  with  one  turn  out  earn** 
the  ever-ready  knitting-work,  and  there  she  was  again,  go¬ 
ing  on  as  briskly  as  ever.  It  really  was  a  labor  to  see  her. 


CHAPTER  XX, 

TOPSY. 

One  morning,  while  Miss  Ophelia  was  busy  in  some  of  her 
domestic  cares,  St.  Clare's  voice  was  heard  calling  her  at  the 
foot  of  the  stairs. 

“  Come  down  here,  cousin;  I've  something  to  show  you.5' 

“What  is  it?”  said  Miss  Ophelia,  coming  down  with  her 
sewing  in  her  hand. 

“I've  made  a  purchase  for  your  department, — see  here,” 
said  St.  Clare;  and,  with  the  words,  he  pulled  along  a  little 
negro  girl,  about  eight  or  nine  years  of  age. 

She  was  one  of  the  blackest  of  her  race;  and  her  round, 
shining  eyes,  glittering  as  glass  beads,  moved  with  quick 
and  restless  glances  over  everything  in  the  room.  Her 
mouth,  half  open  with  astonishment  at  the  wonders  of  the 
new  mas'r's  parlor,  displayed  a  white  and  brilliant  set  of 
teeth.  Her  woolly  hair  was  braided  in  sundry  little  tails, 
which  stuck  out  in  every  direction.  The  expression  of  her 
face  was  an  odd  mixture  of  shrewdness  and  cunning,  over 
which  was  oddly  drawn,  like  a  kind  of  veil,  an  expression  of 
the  most  doleful  gravhy  and  solemnity.  She  was  dressed 
in  a  single  filthy,  ragged  garment,  made  of  bagging;  and 
stood  with  her  hands  demurely  folded  before  her.  Alto¬ 
gether,  there  was  something  odd  and  goblin-like  about  her 
appearance,— something,  as  Miss  Ophelia  afterward  said,  “  so 
heathenish,”  as  to  inspire  that  good  lady  with  utter  dismay; 
and,  turning  to  St.  Clare,  she  said: 

“  Augustine,  what  in  the  world  have  you  brought  that 
thing  here  for?  ” 

“  For  you  to  educate,  to  be  sure,  and  train  in  the  way  she 
should  go.  I  thought  she  was  rather  a  funny  specimen  in  the 
Jim  Crow  line.  Here,  Topsy,”  he  added,  giving  a  whistle, 
as  a  man  would  call  the  attention  of  a  dog,  “  gme  us  a  song, 
now,  and  show  us  some  of  your  dancing.” 

The  black*  giassj  eyes  glittered  with  a  kird  of  wicked 


24f  UNCLE  tom’s  cabin  ;  OE, 

drollery,  and  the  thing  struck  up,  in  a  clear,  shrill  voice, 
an  odd  negro  melody,  to  which  she  kept  time  with  her  hand- 
arid  feet,  spinning  round,  clapping  her  hands,  knocking  her 
knees  together,  in  a  wild,  fantastic  sort  of  time,  and  produc¬ 
ing  in  her  throat  all  those  odd  guttural  sounds  which  dis  ¬ 
tinguish  the  native  music  of  her  race;  and,  finally,  turning  a 
somerset  or  two,  and  giving  a  prolonged  closing  note,  as  odd 
and  unearthly  as  that  of  a  steam- whistle,  she  came  suddenly 
down  on  the  carpet,  and  stood  with  her  hands  folded,  and 
a  most  sanctimonious  expression  of  meekness  and  solemnity 
over  her  face,  only  broken  by  the  cunning  glances  which  she 
shot  askance  from  the  corners  of  her  eyes. 

Miss  Ophelia  stood  silent,  perfectly  paralyzed  with  amaze¬ 
ment. 

St.  Clare,  like  a  mischievous  fellow  as  he  was,  appeared  to 
enjoy  her  astonishment;  and,  addressing  the  child  again, 
said: 

“  Topsy,  this  is  your  new'  mistress.  Fm  going  to  give  you 
up  to  her;  see,  now,  that  you  behave  yourself.” 

“  Yes,  mas’r,”  said  Topsy,  with  sanctimonious  gravity, 
her  wicked  eyes  twinkling  as  she  spoke. 

“  You’re  going  to  be  good,  Topsy,  you  understand,”  said 
St.  Clare. 

“  Oh,  yes,  mash!  ”  said  Topsy,  with  another  twinkle,  her 
hands  still  devoutly  folded. 

“  Now,  Augustine,  what  upon  earth  is  this  for?”  said 
Miss  Ophelia.  “  Your  house  is  so  full  of  these  little  plagues 
now,  that  a  body  can’t  set  down  their  foot  without  treading 
on  ’em.  I  get  up  in  the  morning  and  find  one  asleep  behind 
the  door,  and  see  one  black  head  poking  ont  from  under  the 
table,  one  lying  on  the  doormat, — and  they  are  mopping  and 
mowing  and  grinning  between  all  the  railings  and  tumbling 
over  the  kitchen  floor!  What  on  earth  did  you  want  to  bring 
this  one  for?  ” 

“For  you  to  educate,— didn’t  I  tell  you?  You’re  always 
preaching  about  educating.  I  thought  I  would  make  you 
a  present  of  a  fresh-caught  specimen,  and  let  you  try  your 
hand  on  her,  and  bring  her  up  in  the  way  she  should  go.” 

“  I  don’t  want  her,  I  am  sure;  I  have  more  to  do  with  ’em 
now  than  I  want  to.” 

“  That*s  you  Christians,  all  over!- — you’ll  get  up  a  society, 
and  get  some  poor  missionary  to  spend  all  his  days  among 
gust  such  heathen.  But  let  me  see  one  of  you  that  would 


life  Aimim  the  lowly. 


248 


lake  one  into  your  house  with  you,  and  take  the  labor  of 
their  conversion  on  yourselves!  No;  when  it  comes  to  that, 
they  are  dirty  and  disagreeable,  and  it’s  too  much  qare,  and 
so  on.” 

“  Augustine,  you  know  I  didn’t  think  of  it  in  that  light.” 
said  Miss  Ophelia,  evidently  softening.  “  Well,  it  might  be  a 
real  missionary  v/ork,”  said  she,  looking  rather  more  favor¬ 
ably  on  the  child. 

St.  Clare  had  touched  the  right  string.  Miss  Ophelia’s 
conscientiousness  was  ever  on  the  alert.  “  But,”  she  added, 
“  I  really  didn’t  see  the  need  of  buying  this  one; — there  are 
enough  now  in  your  house  to  take  all  my  time  and  skill.” 

“  Well,  then,  cousin,”  said  St.  Clare,  drawing  he"*  aside,  “  1 
ought  to  beg  your  pardon  for  my  good-for-nothing  speeches. 
You  are  so  good,  after  all,  that  there’s  no  sense  in  them. 
Why,  the  fact  is,  this  concern  belonged  to  a  couple  of  drunken 
creatures  that  keep  a  low  restaurant  that  I  have  to  pass  by 
every  day,  and  I  was  tired  of  hearing  her  screaming,  and 
them  beating  and  swearing  at  her.  She  looked  bright  and 
funny,  too,  as  if  something  might  be  made  of  her,— so  I 
bought  her,  and  I’ll  give  her  to  you.  Try,  now,  and  give 
her  a  good  orthodox  New  England  bringing-up,  and  see 
what  if  ’ll  make  of  her.  You  know  I  haven’t  any  gift  that 
way;  but  I’d  like  you  to  try.” 

“  Well,  I’ll  do  what  I  can,”  said  Miss  Ophelia;  and  she 
approached  her  new  subject  very  much  as  a  person  might 
be  supposed  to  approach  a  black  spider,  supposing  them  to 
have  benevolent  designs  toward  it. 

“  She’s  dreadfully  dirty,  and  half-naked,”  she  said. 

“  Well,  take  her  downstairs  and  make  some  of  them  clean 
her  and  clothe  her  up.” 

Miss  Ophelia  carried  her  to  the  kitchen  regions. 

“  Don’t  see  what  Mas’r  St.  Clare  wants  of  brother  nig¬ 
ger!  ”  said  Dinah,  surveying  the  new  arrival  with  no  friendly 
air.  “  Won’t  have  her  round  under  my  feet,  I  know!  ” 

“Pah!”  said  Rosa  and  Jane,  with  supreme  disgust;  “  let 
her  keep  out  of  our  way!  What  in  the  world  mas’r  wanted 
another  of  these  low  niggers  for,  I  can’t  see!  ” 

“  You  go  ’long!  No  more  nigger  dan  you  be,  Miss  Rosa,” 
said  Dinah,  who  felt  this  last  remark  a  reflection  on  herself. 
“You  seem  to  tink  yourself  white  folks.  You  an’t  nerry 
one,  black  nor  white,  I’d  like  to  be  one  ci  turner.” 

Miss  Ophelia  saw  that  there  was  nobody  in  the  camp  that 


$44 


uncle  tom’s  cabin;  OB, 

would  undertake  to  oversee  the  cleansing  and  dressing  of 
the  new  arrival;  and  so  she  was  forced  to  do  it  herself, 
with  some  very  ungracious  and  reluctant  assistance  from 
Jane. 

It  is  not  for  ears  polite  to  hear  the  particulars  of  the  first 
toilet  of  a  neglected,  abused  child.  In  fact,  in  this  world, 
multitudes  must  live  and  die  in  a  state  that  it  would  he  too 
great  a  shock  to  the  nerves  of  their  fellow-mortals  even  to 
hear  described.  Miss  Ophelia  had  a  good,  strong  practical 
deal  of  resolution;  and  she  went  through  all  the  disgusting 
details  with  heroic  thoroughness,  though,  it  must  be  con¬ 
fessed,  with  no  very  gracious  air, — for  endurance  was  the 
utmost  to  which  her  principles  could  bring  her.  When  she 
saw  on  the  back  and  shoulders  of  the  child  great  welts  and 
calloused  spots,  ineffaceable  marks  of  the  system  under  which 
she  had  grown  up  thus  far,  her  heart  became  pitiful  within 
her. 

“  See  there!  ”  said  Jane,  pointing  to  the  marks,  “  don’t 
that  show  she’s  a  limb?  We’ll  have  fine  works  with  her,  I 
reckon.  I  hate  these  nigger  young  uns!  so  disgusting!  I 
wonder  that  mas’r  would  buy  her!  ” 

The  “  young  un”  alluded  to  heard  all  these  comments 
with  the  subdued  and  doleful  air  which  seemed  habitual  to 
her,  only  scanning,  with  a  keen  and  furtive  glance  of  her 
flickering  eyes,  the  ornaments  which  Jane  wore  in  her  ears. 
When  arrayed  at  last  in  a  suit  of  decent  and  whole  cloth¬ 
ing,  her  hair  cropped  short  to  her  head,  Miss  Ophelia,  with 
some  satisfaction,  said  she  looked  more  Christian-like  than 
she  did,  and  in  her  own  mind  began  to  mature  some  plans 
for  her  instruction. 

Sitting  down  before  her,  she  began  to  question  her. 

“  How  old  are  you,  Topsy?  ” 

“  Dunno,  missis,”  said  the  image,  with  a  grin  that  showed 
all  her  teeth. 

“  Don’t  know  how  old  you  are?  Didn’t  anybody  ever  tell 
you?  Who  was  your  mother?” 

“  Never  had  none!  ”  said  the  child,  with  another  grin. 

“  Never  had  any  mother?  What  do  you  mean?  Where 
were  you  born?  ” 

“ Never  was  born!”  persisted  Topsy,  with  another  grin, 
that  looked  so  goblin-like  that,  if  Miss  Ophelia  had  been  at 
all  nervous,  she  might  have  fancied  that  she  had  got  hold  of 
Some  so'-y  gnome  from  the  land  of  Diablerie^  but  Miss 


LIFE  AMONG  •  THIS  ILOWXX. 


248 


Ophelia  was  not  nervous,  but  plain  and  business-like,  and 
she  said,  with  some  sternness: 

“  You  mustn't  answer  me  in  that  way,  child;  Fm  not  play¬ 
ing  with  you.  Tell  me  where  you  were  bom,  and  who  your 
father  and  mother  were/' 

*  Never  was  born,"  reiterated  the  creature,  more  em¬ 
phatically;  “  never  had  no  father  nor  mother,  nor  nothin'. 
I  was  raised  by  a  speculator,  with  lots  of  others.  Old  Aunt 
Sue  used  to  take  car  on  us." 

The  child  was  evidently  sincere;  and  Jane,  breaking  into 
a  short  laugh,  said: 

“  Law's,  missis,  there's  heaps  of  'em.  Speculators  buys 
'em  up  cheap,  when  they's  little,  and  gets  'em  raised  for 
market." 

“  How  long  have  you  lived  with  your  master  and  mis¬ 
tress?  " 

“Dunno,  missis." 

“Is  it  a  year,  or  more,  or  less?" 

“  Dunno,  missis." 

“  Laws,  missis,  those  low'  negroes, — they  can't  tell;  they 
don't  know  anything  about  time,"  said  Jane;  “they  don't 
know  what  a  year  is;  they  don't  know  their  own  ages." 

“  Have  you  ever  heard  anything  about  God,  Topsy?  " 

The  child  looked  bewildered,  but  grinned  as  usual. 

“  Do  you  know  who  made  you?  " 

“Nobody,  as  I  knows  on,"  said  the  child,  with  a  short 
laugh. 

The  idea  appeared  to  amuse  her  considerably:  for  her 
eyes  twinkled,  and  she  added: 

“  I  spect  I  grow'd.  Don't  think  nobody  never  made  me." 

“Do  you  know  how  to  sew?"  said  Miss  Ophelia,  who 
thought  she  would  turn  her  inquiries  to  something  more 
tangible. 

“  No,  missis." 

“What  can  you  do? — what  did  you  do  for  your  master 
and  mistress?  " 

“  Fetch  water,  and  wash  dishes,  and  rub  knives,  and  wait 
on  folks." 

“  Were  they  good  to  you?  " 

“  Spect  they  was,"  said  the  child,  scanning  Miss  Ophelia 
cunningly. 

Miss  Ophelia  rose  from  this  encouraging  colloquy;  St. 
Clare  was  leaning  over  the  back  of  her  chair. 


246 


BNCIU5  TOM?S  CABIN ;  OB, 

“  You  find  virgin  soil  there,  cousin;  put  in  your  own  ideas* 
—you  won’t  find  many  to  puli  up.” 

Miss  Ophelia’s  ideas  of  education,  like  all  her  othe"  ideas, 
were  very  set  and  definite,  and  of  the  kird  tha.;  prevailed  in 
New  England  a  century  ago,  and  which  arc  still  preserved 
in  some  very  retired  and  unsophisticac  d  parts,  where  there 
are  no  railroads.  As  nearly  as  could  be  expressed,  they 
could  be  comprised  in  very  few  words:  to  teach  them  to  mind 
when  they  were  spoken  to;  to  teach  them  the  catechism,  sew¬ 
ing,  and  reading;  and  to  whip  them  if  they  told  lies.  And 
though,  of  course,  in  the  flood  of  light  that  is  now  poured 
on  education,  these  are  left  far  away  in  the  rear,  yet  it  is 
an  undisputed  fact  that  our  grandmothers  raised  some  tol¬ 
erably  fair  men  and  women  under  this  regime ,  as  many  of 
us  can  remember  and  testify.  At  all  events  Miss  Ophelia 
knew  of  nothing  else  to  do;  and,  therefore,  applied  her  mind 
to  her  heathen  with  the  best  diligence  she  could  command. 

The  child  was  announced  and  considered  in  the  family 
as  Miss  Ophelia’s  girl;  and  as  she  was  looked  upon  with  no 
gracious  eye  in  the  kitchen,  Miss  Ophelia  resolved  to  con¬ 
fine  her  sphere  of  operation  and  instruction  chiefly  to  her 
own  chamber.  With  a  self-sacrifice  which  some  of  our  read¬ 
ers  will  appreciate,  she  resolved  instead  of  comfortably  mak¬ 
ing  her  own  bed,  sweeping  and  dusting  her  own  chamber, — 
which  she  had  hitherto  done,  in  utter  scorn  of  all  offers  of 
help  from  the  chambermaid  of  the  establishment, — to  con¬ 
demn  herself  to  the  martyrdom  of  instructing  Topsy  to  per¬ 
form  these  operations, — ah,  woe  the  day!  Did  any  of  our 
readers  ever  do  the  same,  they  will  appreciate  the  amount  of 
her  self-sacrifice. 

Miss  Ophelia  began  with  Topsy  by  taking  her  into  her 
chamber  the  first  morning  and  solemnly  commencing  a 
a  course  of  instruction  in  the  art  and  mystery  of  bed-making. 

Behold,  then,  Topsy,  washed  and  shorn  of  all  the  little 
braided  tails  wherein  her  heart  had  delighted,  arrayed  in  a 
clean  gown,  with  well-starched  apron,  standing  reverently 
before  Miss  Ophelia,  with  an  expression  of  solemnity  well  be¬ 
fitting  a  funeral. 

“  Now,  Topsy,  Pm  going  to  show  you  just  how  my  bed  is 
to  be  made.  I  am  very  particular  about  my  bed.  You  must 
learn  exactly  how  to  do  it.” 

“  Yes,  ma’am,”  says  Topsy,  with  a  deep  sigh  and  a  face  of 
.woeful  earnestness* 


24? 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY, 

“Now,  Topsy,  look  here; — this  is  the  hem  of  the  sheet,— 
this  is  the  right  side  of  the  sheet*  and  this  is  the  wrong;  will 
you  remember?  ” 

“  Yes,  ma’am,”  says  Topsy,  with  another  sigh, 

“  Well,  now,  the  under  sheet  you  must  brir  g  over  the 
bolster,— so,— and  tuck  it  clear  down  under  tne  mattress 
nice  and  smooth,— so,— do  you  see?  ” 

“  Yes,  ma’am,”  said  Topsy,  with  profound  attention. 

“  But  the  upper  sheet,”  said  Miss  Ophelia,  “  must  be 
brought  down  in  this  way,  and  tucked  under  firm  and  smooth 
at  the  foot,— so, — the  narrow  hem  at  the  foot.” 

“  Yes,  ma’am,”  said  Topsy,  as  before;  but  we  will  add, 
what  Miss  Ophelia  did  not  see,  that,  during  the  time  when 
the  good  lady’s  back  was  turned,  in  the  zeal  of  her  manipu¬ 
lations,  the  young  disciple  had  contrived  to  snatch  a  pair  of 
gloves  and  a  ribbon,  which  she  had  adroitly  slipped  into  her 
sleeves,  and  stood  with  her  hands  dutifully  folded,  as  before. 

“  Now,  Topsy,  let’s  see  you  do  this,”  said  Miss  Ophelia, 
pulling  off  the  clothes,  and  seating  herself. 

Topsy,  with  great  gravity  and  adroitness,  went  through 
the  exercise  completely  to  Miss  Ophelia’s  satisfaction; 
smoothing  the  sheets,  patting  out  every  wrinkle,  and  exhibit¬ 
ing,  through  the  whole  process,  a  gravity  and  seriousness 
with  which  her  instructress  was  greatly  edified.  By  an  un¬ 
lucky  slip,  however,  a  fluttering  fragment  of  the  ribbon  hung 
out  of  one  of  her  sleeves,  just  as  she  was  finishing,  and  caught 
Miss  Ophelia’s  attention.  Instantly  she  pounced  upon  it. 
“'What’s  this?  You  naughty,  wicked  child, — you’ve  been 
stealing  this!  ” 

The  ribbon  was  pulled  out  of  Topsy’s  own  sleeve,  yet  was 
she  not  in  the  least  disconcerted;  she  only  looked  at  it  with 
an  air  of  the  most  surprised  and  unconscious  innocence. 

“  Laws!  why,  that  ar’s  Miss  Feely’s  ribbon,  an’t  it?  How 
could  it  ’a’  got  caught  in  my  sleeve?  ” 

“  Topsy,  you  naughty  girl,  don’t  you  tell  me  a  lie, — you 
stole  that  ribbon!  ” 

“Missis,  I  declar  for’t  I  didn’t:— never  seed  it  till  dis  yer 
blessed  minnit.” 

“  Topsy,”  said  Miss  Ophelia,  “  don’t  you  know  it’s  wicked 
to  tell  lies?” 

“  I  never  tells  no  lies,  Miss  Feely,”  said  Topsy,  with  virtu- 
ous  gravity;  “  it’s  jist  the  truth  I’ve  been  a-teilin  now,  and 
an’t  nothin’  else.” 


ms 


UNCLE  TOM’S  CABIN  |  OB, 

“  Topsy,  I  shall  have  to  whip  you  if  you  fell  lies  bo.* 

“  Laws,  missis,  if  yon’s  to  whip  all  day,  couldn’t  say  no 
other  way/’  said  Topsy,  beginning  to  blubber.  “  I  never 
seed  dat  ar,— it  must  V  got  caught  in  my  sleeve.  Miss  Feely 
must  have  left  it  cn  the  bed,  and  it  got  caught  in  the  clothes, 
and  so  got  in  my  sleeve.” 

Miss  Ophelia  was  so  indignant  at  the  barefaced  lie  that 
she  caught  the  child  and  shook  her. 

“  Don’t  you  tell  me  that  again!  ” 

The  shake  brought  the  gloves  on  the  floor,  from  the  other 
sleeve. 

“  There,  you!  ”  said  Miss  Ophelia,  “  will  you  tell  me  now 
you  didn’t  steal  the  ribbon?” 

Topsy  now  confessed  to  the  gloves,  but  still  persisted  in 
denying  the  ribbon. 

“Now,  Topsy,”  said  Miss  Ophelia,  “if  you’ll  confess  all 
about  it,  I  won’t  v/hip  you  this  time.” 

Thus  adjured,  Topsy  confessed  to  the  ribbon  and  gloves, 
with  woeful  protestations  of  penitence. 

“Well,  now,  tell  me.  I  know  you  must  have  taken  other 
things  since  you  have  been  in  the  house,  for  I  let  you  run 
about  all  day  yesterday.  Now,  tell  me  if  you  took  anything, 
and  I  shan’t  whip  you.” 

“Laws,  missis!  I  took  Miss  Eva’s  red  thing  she  wars  on 
her  neck.” 

“  You  did,  you  naughty  child!— Well,  what  else?  ” 

“I  took  Rosa’s  yer-rings, — them  red  ones.” 

“  Go  bring  them  to  me  this  minute,  both  of  ’em.” 

“  Laws  missis!  I  can’t, — they’s  burnt  up!  ” 

“  Burnt  up!— -what  a  story! — Go  get  ’em,  or  I’ll  whip  you.” 

Topsy,  with  loud  protestations,  and  tears,  and  groans, 
declared  that  she  could  not.  “  They’s  burnt  up, — -they  was.” 

“  What  did  you  burn  ’em  up  for?  ”  said  Miss  Ophelia. 

“  ’Cause  I’s  wicked, — I  is.  I’s  mighty  wicked,  anyhow. 
I  can’t  help  it.” 

Just  at  this  moment  Eva  came  innocently  into  the  room 
with  the  identical  coral  necklace  on  her  neck. 

“  Why,  Eva,  where  did  you  get  your  necklace?  ”  said  Miss 
Ophelia. 

“  Get  it?  Why,  I’ve  had  it  on  all  day,”  said  Eva. 

“  Did  you  have  it  on  yesterday?  ” 

“Yes;  and  what  is  funny,  aunty,  I  had  it  on  all  night.  I 
forgot  to  take  it  off  when  I  went  to  bed,” 


LIYE  AMONG  THE  .  LOWLY, 


MB 

Miss  Uplielia  looked  perfectly  bewildered;  the  more  so* 
as  Rosa  at  that  instant  came  into  the  room*  with  a  basket 
of  newly  ironed  linen  poised  on  her  head  and  the  coral  ear¬ 
drops  shaking  in  her  ears! 

‘  Pm  sure  I  can’t  tell  anything  what  to  do  with  such  a 
child!  ”  she  said*  in  despair.  “  What  in  the  world  did  you 
tell  me  you  took  those  things  fox%  Topsy?” 

“  Why*  missis  said  I  must  ’fess;  and  I  couldn’t  think  of 
nothin’  else  to  ’fess*”  said  Topsy*  rubbing  her  eyes. 

“  But  of  course  I  didn’t  want  you  to  confess  things  you 
didn’t  do*”  said  Miss  Ophelia;  “  that’s  telling  a  lie*  just  as 
much  as  the  other.” 

“Laws*  now*  is  it?”  said  Topsy*  with  an  air  of  innocent 
wonder. 

“  La*  there  an’t  such  a  thing  as  truth  in  that  limb*”  said 
Rosa,  looking  indignantly  at  Topsy.  “  If  I  was  Mas’r  St. 
Clare*  I’d  whip  her  till  the  blood  run.  I  would* — I’d  let  her 
catch  it.” 

“  No*  no*  Rosa*”  said  Eva*  with  an  air  of  command*  which 
the  child  could  assume  at  times;  “  you  mustn’t  talk  so*  Rosa. 
I  can’t  bear  to  hear  it.” 

“La  sakes!  Miss  Eva*  you’s  so  good*  you  don’t  know 
nothing  how  to  get  along  with  niggers.  There’s  no  way  but 
to  cut  ’em  well  up*  I  tell  ye.” 

“Rosa!”  said  Eva*  “hush!  Don’t  you  say  another  word 
of  that  sort!  ”  and  the  eye  of  the  child  flashed*  and  her  cheek 
deepened  its  color. 

Rosa  was  cowed  in  a  moment. 

“  Miss  Eva  has  got  the  St.  Clare  blood  in  her*  that’s  plain. 
She  can  speak  for  all  the  world  just  like  her  papa,”  she  said* 
as  she  passed  out  of  the  room. 

Eva  stood  looking  at  Topsy. 

There  stood  the  two  children,  representatives  of  the  two 
extremes  of  society.  The  fair*  highbred  child*  with  her 
golden  head*  her  deep  eyes*  her  spiritual,  noble  brow*  and 
prince-like  movements;  and  her  black,  keen*  subtle,  cring¬ 
ing  *  yet  acute  neighbor.  They  stood  the  representatives  of 
their  races.  The  Saxon*  born  of  ages  of  cultivation*  com¬ 
mand,  education,  physical  and  moral  eminence;  the  Afric* 
born  of  ages  of  oppression*  submission*  ignorance*  toil*  and 
vice! 

Something*  perhaps,  of  such  thoughts  struggled  through, 
•Eva’s  mind.  But  a  child’s  thoughts  are  rather  dim*  und§- 


350 


■0NC&B  tom’s  cabik;  OB, 

fined  instincts;  and  in  Eva's  noble  nature  many  such  were 
yearning  and  working,  for  which  she  had  no  power  of  utter¬ 
ance.  When  Miss  Ophelia  expatiated  on  Topsy's  naughty, 
wicked  conduct,  the  child  looked  perplexed  and  sorrowful, 
but  said  sweetly  : 

“Poor  Topsy,  why  need  you  steal?  You're  going  to  be 
taken  good  care  of  now.  I'm  sure  I'd  rather  give  you  any¬ 
thing  of  mine  than  have  you  steal  it." 

It  was  the  first  word  of  kindness  the  child  had  ever  heard 
in  her  life;  and  the  sweet  tone  and  manner  struck  strangely 
on  the  wild,  rude  heart,  and  a  sparkle  of  something  like  a 
tear  shone  in  the  keen,  round,  glittering  eye;  but  it  was  fol¬ 
lowed  by  the  short  laugh  and  habitual  grin.  No!  the  ear 
that  has  never  heard  anything  but  abuse  is  strangely  in¬ 
credulous  of  anything  so  heavenly  as  kindness;  and  Topsy 
only  thought  Eva's  speech  something  funny  and  inexplicable, 
—she  did  not  believe  it. 

But  what  was  to  be  done  with  Topsy?  Miss  Ophelia  found 
the  case  a  puzzler;  her  rules  for  bringing  up  didn't  seem  to 
apply.  She  thought  she  would  take  time  to  think  of  it;  and 
by  the  way  of  gaining  time,  and  in  hopes  of  some  indefinite 
moral  virtues  supposed  to  be  inherent  in  dark  closets,  Miss 
Ophelia  shut  Topsy  in  one  till  she  had  arranged  her  ideas 
further  on  the  subject. 

“  I  don't  see,"  said  Miss  Ophelia  to  St.  Clare,  “  how  I'm 
going  to  manage  that  child  without  whipping  her." 

“  Well,  whip  her,  then,  to  your  hearts'  content;  I’ll  give 
you  full  power  to  do  what  you  like." 

“  Children  always  have  to  be  whipped,"  said  Miss  Ophelia; 
“  I  never  heard  of  bringing  them  up  without." 

“  Oh,  well,  certainly,"  said  St.  Clare;  “  do  as  you  think 
best.  Only,  I'll  make  one  suggestion:  I've  seen  this  child 
whipped  with  a  poker,  knocked  down  with  the  shovel  or 
tongs,  whichever  came  handiest;  and,  seeing  that  she  is  used 
to  that  style  of  operation,  I  think  your  whippings  will  have 
to  be  pretty  energetic  to  make  much  impression." 

“What  is  to  be  done  with  her,  then?"  said  Miss  Ophelia. 

“You  have  started  a  serious  question,"  said  St.  Clare;  “I 
wish  you'd  answer  it.  What  is  to  be  done  with  a  human  be¬ 
ing  that  can  be  governed  only  by  the  lash,— that  fails,— it's 
a  very  common  state  of  things  down  here!  " 

“I'm  sure  I  don't  know;  I  never  saw  such  a  child  a§ 
this." 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY. 


mi 


“  Such  children  are  very  common  among  us,  and  smell 
men  and  women,  too.  How  are  they  to  be  governed?**  said 
St.  Clare. 

“  Fm  sure  it*s  more  than  I  can  say/*  said  Miss  Ophelia. 

“  Or  I  either/*  said  St.  Clare.  “  The  horrid  cruelties  and 
outrages  that  once  in  a  while  find  their  way  into  the  papers, 
— such  cases  as  Prue*s,  for  example,— what  do  they  come 
from?  In  many  cases  it  is  a  gradual  hardening  process  on 
both  sides, — the  owner  growing  more  and  more  cruel,  as 
the  servant  more  and  more  callous.  Whipping  and  abuse 
are  like  laudanum;  you  have  to  double  the  dose  as  the  sensi¬ 
bilities  decline.  I  saw  this  very  early  when  I  became  an 
owner;  and  I  resolved  never  to  begin,  because  I  did  not  know 
when  I  should  stop, — and  I  resolved,  at  least,  to  protect  my 
own  moral  nature.  The  consequence  is  that  my  servants  act 
like  spoiled  children;  but  I  think  that  better  than  for  us 
both  to  be  brutalized  together.  You  have  talked  a  great  deal 
about  our  responsibilities  in  educating,  cousin.  I  really 
wanted  you  to  try  with  one  child,  who  is  a  specimen  of  thou¬ 
sands  among  us.** 

“  It  is  your  system  makes  such  children/*  said  Miss 
Ophelia. 

“  I  know  it;  but  they  are  made—  they  exist,— and  what 
is  to  be  done  with  them?  ** 

“  Well,  I  can*t  say  I  thank  you  for  the  experiment.  But, 
then,  as  it  appears  to  be  a  duty,  I  shall  persevere  and  try, 
and  do  the  best  I  can/*  said  Miss  Ophelia;  and  Miss  Ophelia, 
after  this,  did  labor,  with  a  commendable  degree  of  zeal  and 
energy,  on  her  new  subject.  She  instituted  regular  hours 
and  employments  for  her,  and  undertook  to  teach  her  to 
read  and  to  sew. 

In  the  former  art  the  child  was  quick  enough.  She  learned 
her  letters  as  if  by  magic,  and  was  very  soon  able  to  read 
plain  reading;  but  the  sewing  was  a  more  difficult  mat¬ 
ter. 

The  creature  was  as  lithe  as  a  cat  and  as  active  as  a  monkey, 
and  the  confinement  of  sewing  was  her  abomination;  so  she 
broke  her  needles,  threw  them  slyly  out  of  the  windows  or 
down  in  chinks  of  the  walls;  she  tangled,  broke,  and  dirtied 
her  thread,  or,  with  a  sly  movement,  would  throw  a  spool 
away  altogether.  Her  motions  were  almost  as  quick  as  those 
of  a  practiced  conjurer,  and  her  command  of  her  face  quite 
as  great ;  and  though  Miss  Ophelia  could  not  help  feeling  that 


msGi* s  tom9s  cabin  ;  ob, 

so  many  accidents  eorld  not  possibly  happen  m  succession, 
yet  she  could  not,  without  a  watchfulness  which  would  leave 
her  no  time  for  anything  else,  detect  her. 

Topsy  was  soon  a  noted  character  in  the  establishment. 
Her  talent  for  every  species  of  drollery,  grimace,  and  mim¬ 
icry — for  dancing,  tumbling,  climbing,  singing,  whistling, 
imitating  every  sound  that  hit  her  fancy — seemed  inexhaust¬ 
ible.  In  her  play-hours,  she  invariably  had  every  child  in  the 
establishment  at  her  heels,  open-mouthed  with  admiration 
and  wonder, —not  excepting  Miss  Eva,  who  appeared  to  be 
fascinated  by  her  wild  diablerie,  as  a  dove  is  sometimes 
charmed  by  a  glittering  serpent.  Miss  Ophelia  was  uneasy 
that  Eva  should  fancy  Topsy’s  society  so  much,  and  im¬ 
plored  St.  Clare  to  forbid  it. 

“Poh!  let  the  child  alone,”  said  St.  Clare.  “  Topsy  will 
do  her  good.” 

“  But  so  depraved  a  child,— are  you  not  afraid  she  will 
teach  her  some  mischief?” 

“  She  can’t  teach  her  mischief;  she  might  teach  it  to  some 
children,  but  evil  rolls  off  Eva’s  mind  like  dew  off  a  cabbage- 
leaf, — not  a  drop  sinks  in.” 

“  Don’t  be  too  sure,”  said  Miss  Ophelia.  “  I  know  I’d 
never  let  a  child  of  mine  play  with  Topsy.” 

“Well,  your  children  needn’t,”  said  St.  Clare,  “but  mine 
may;  if  Eva  could  have  been  spoiled  it  would  have  been  done 
years  ago.” 

Topsy  was  at  first  despised  and  contemned  by  the  upper 
servants.  They  soon  found  reason  to  alter  their  opinion. 
It  was  very  soon  discovered  that  whoever  cast  an  indignity 
on  Topsy  was  sure  to  meet  with  some  inconvenient  acci¬ 
dent  shortly  after; — either  a  pair  of  ear-rings  or  some  cher¬ 
ished  trinket  would  be  missing,  or  an  article  of  dress  would 
be  suddenly  found  utterly  ruined,  or  the  person  would 
stumble  accidentally  into  a  pail  of  hot  water,  or  a  libation  of 
dirty  slop  would  unaccountably  deluge  them  from  above 
when  in  full  gala  dress; — and  on  all  these  occasions  when  in¬ 
vestigation  was  made,  there  was  nobody  found  to  stand  spon¬ 
sor  for  the  indignity.  Topsy  was  cited,  and  had  up  before  all 
the  domestic  judicatories,  time  and  again;  but  always  sus¬ 
tained  her  examinations  with  most  edifying  innocence  and 
gravity  of  appearance.  Nobody  in  the  world  ever  doubted 
who  did  the  thing;  but  not  a  scrap  of  any  direct  evidence 
€Ould  be  found  to  establish  the  suppositions,  and  Miss 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY. 


MS 

Ophelia  was  too  just  to  feel  at  liberty  to  proceed  to  any 

length  without  it. 

The  mischiefs  done  were  always  so  nicely  timed,  also,  as 
farther  to  shelter  the  aggressor.  Thus,  the  times  for  revenge 
on  Rosa  and  Jane,  the  two  chambermaids,  were  always 
chosen  in  those  seasons  when  (as  not  unfrequently  happened) 
they  were  in  disgrace  with  their  mistiess,  when  any  com-* 

flaint  from  them  would  of  course  meet  with  no  sympathy, 
n  short,  Topsy  soon  made  the  household  understand  the 
propriety  of  letting  her  alone;  and  she  was  let  alone  accord-* 
ingly- 

Topsy  was  smart  and  energetic  in  all  manual  operations, 
learning  everything  that  was  taught  her  with  surprising 
quickness.  With  a  few  lessons  she  had  learned  to  do  the 
proprieties  of  Miss  Ophelia’s  chamber  in  a  way  with  which 
even  that  particular  lady  could  find  no  fault.  Mortal  hands 
could  not  lay  spread  smoother,  adjust  pillows  more  accu¬ 
rately,  sweep  and  dust  and  arrange  more  perfectly,  than 
Topsy,  when  she  chose, — but  she  didn’t  very  often  choose. 
If  Miss  Ophelia,  after  three  or  four  days  of  careful  and  pa¬ 
tient  supervision,  was  so  sanguine  as  to  suppose  that  Topsy 
had  at  last  fallen  into  her  way,  could  do  without  overlooking, 
and  so  go  off  and  busy  herself  about  something  else,  Topsy 
would  hold  a  perfect  carnival  of  confusion  for  some  one 
or  two  hours.  Instead  of  making  the  bed  she  would  amuse 
herself  with  pulling  off  the  pillow-cases,  butting  her  woolly 
head  among  the  pillows,  till  it  would  sometimes  be  gro¬ 
tesquely  ornamented  with  feathers  sticking  out  in  various 
directions;  she  would  climb  the  posts,  and  hang  her  head 
downward  from  the  tops;  flourish  the  sheets  and  spreads  all 
over  the  apartment;  dress  the  bolster  up  in  Miss  Ophelia’s 
night-clothes,  and  enact  various  scenic  performances  with 
that,* — singing  and  whistling,  and  making  grimaces  at  her¬ 
self  in  the  looking-glass;  in  short,  as  Miss  Ophelia  phrased 
it,  “  raising  Cain  ”  generally. 

On  one  occasion  Miss  Ophelia  found  Topsy  with  her  very 
best  scarlet  India  canton  crape  shawl  round  her  head  for  a 
turban,  going  on  with  her  rehearsals  before  the  glass  in  great 
style, — Miss  Ophelia  having,  with  carelessness  most  unheard 
of  in  her,  left  the  key  for  once  in  her  drawer. 

“  Topsy,”  she  would  say,  when  at  the  end  of  all  patience* 
96 what  does  make  you  act  so?” 

"Dunno,  missis, — I  spects  ’cause  I’s  so  wicked!” 


254 


UNCLE  tom’s  cabin;  OB, 

“  I  don’t  know  what  I  shall  do  with  you,  Topsy.” 

“Law,  missis,  you  must  whip  me;  my  old  missis  ailers 
whipped  me.  I  an’t  used  to  Wv,rkin’  unless  I  get’s  whipped.” 

“  Why,  Topsy,  I  don’t  want  to  whip  you.  You  can  do  well, 
if  you’ve  a  mind  to;  what  is  the  reason  you  won’t?  ” 

“  Laws,  missis,  I’s  used  to  whippin’;  I  spects  it’s  good  for 
me.” 

Miss  Ophelia  tried  the  recipe,  and  Topsy  invariably  made 
a  terrible  commotion,  screaming,  groaning,  and  imploring, 
though  half  an  hour  afterward,  when  roosted  on  some  pro¬ 
jection  of  the  balcony  and  surrounded  by  a  flock  of  admir¬ 
ing  “  young  uns,”  she  would  express  the  utmost  contempt 
of  the  whole  affair. 

“Law,  Miss  Feely  whip! — wouldn’t  kill  a  skeeter,  her 
whippin’s.  Oughter  see  how  old  mas’r  made  the  flesh  fly; 
old  mas’r  know^’d  how!  ” 

Topsy  always  made  great  capital  of  her  own  sins  and 
enormities,  evidently  considering  them  as  something  pecu¬ 
liarly  distinguishing. 

“  Law,  you  niggers,”  she  would  say  to  some  of  her  auditors, 
“  does  you  know  you’s  all  sinners?  Well,  you  is, — everybody 
is.  White  folks  is  sinners,  too,  Miss  Feely  says  so;  but  I 
spects  niggers  is  the  biggest  ones;  but  lor!  ye  an’t  any  on  ye 
up  to  me.  I’s  so  awful  wicked  there  can’t  nobody  do  nothin’ 
with  me.  I  used  to  keep  old  missis  a-swarin’  at  me  half  de 
time.  I  spects  I’s  the  wickedest  crittur  in  the  world;  ”  and 
Topsy  would  cut  a  somerset,  and  come  up  brisk  and  shining 
on  to  a  higher  perch,  and  evidently  plume  herself  on  the  dis¬ 
tinction. 

Miss  Ophelia  busied  herself  very  earnestly  on  Sundays 
teaching  Topsy  the  catechism.  Topsy  had  an  uncommon 
verbal  memory,  and  committed  with  a  fluency  that  greatly 
encouraged  her  instructress. 

“What  good  do  you  expect  it  is  going  to  do  her?”  said 
St.  Clare. 

“  Why,  it  has  always  done  children  good.  It’s  what  chil¬ 
dren  always  have  to  learn,  you  know,”  said  Miss  Ophelia. 

“Understand  it  or  not?”  said  St.  Clare. 

“  Oh,  children  never  understand  it  at  the  time;  but  after 
they  are  grown  up  it  ’ll  come  to  them.” 

“  Mine  hasn’t  come  to  me  yet,”  said  St.  Clare,  “  though 
I’ll  bear  testimony  that  you  put  it  into  me  pretty  thoroughly 
when  I  was  a  boy.” 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY.  HII 

“  Ah,  you  were  always  good  at  learning,  Augustine.  I 
Med  to  have  great  hopes  of  you/*  said  Miss  Ophelia. 

“  Weil,  haven't  you  now?  ”  said  St.  Clare. 

“  i  wish  you  were  as  good  as  you  were  when  you  were  a 
boy,  Augustine.” 

“  So  do  I,  that's  a  fact,  cousin,”  said  St.  Clare.  “  Well, 
go  ahead  and  catechise  Topsy;  maybe  you'll  make  out  some¬ 
thing  yet.” 

Topsy,  who  had  stood  like  a  black  statue  during  this  dis¬ 
cussion,  with  hands  decently  folded,  now,  at  a  signal  from 
'Hiss  Ophelia,  went  on: 

”  Our  first  parents,  being  left  to  the  freedom  of  their  own 
will,  fell  from  the  state  wherein  they  were  created.” 

Topsy's  eyes  twinkled,  and  she  looked  inquiringly. 

“  What  is  it,  Topsy?  ”  said  Miss  Ophelia. 

“  Please,  missis,  was  dat  ar  state  Kintuck?” 

“  What  state,  Topsy  ?  ” 

“  Oat  state  dey  fell  out  of.  I  used  to  hear  mas'r  tell  how 
we  came  down  from  Kintuck.” 

St.  Clare  laughed. 

“  You'll  have  to  give  her  a  meaning,  or  she'll  make  cue,** 
said  he.  “  There  seems  to  be  a  theory  of  emigration  sug¬ 
gested  there.” 

“  Oh,  Augustine,  be  still,”  said  Miss  Ophelia;  “how  can 
Ido  anything,  if  you  will  he  laughing?  ” 

“  Weil,  I  won't  disturb  the  exercises  again,  on  my  honor;  ” 
and  St.  Clare  took  his  paper  into  the  parlor,  and  sat  down, 
till  Topsy  had  finished  her  recitations.  They  were  all  very 
well,  only  that  now  and  then  she  would  oddly  transpose 
some  important  words,  and  persist  in  the  mistake,  in  spite 
of  every  effort  to  the  contrary;  and  St.  Clare,  after  all  his 
promises  of  goodness,  took  a  wicked  pleasure  in  these  mis¬ 
takes,  calling  Topsy  to  him  whenever  he  had  a  mind  to  amuse 
himself,  and  getting  her  to  repeat  the  offending  passages* 
in  spite  of  Miss  Ophelia's  remonstrances. 

“  How  do  you  think  I  can  do  any  thing  with  the  child,  if 
you  will  go  on  so,  Augustine?  ”  she  would  sav. 

“  Well,  it  is  too  bad,- — I  won't  again;  but  t  do  like  to  hear 
the  droll  little  image  stumble  over  those  big  words.” 

“  But  you  confirm  her  in  the  wrong  way.” 

“What's  the  odds?  One  word  is  as  good  as  another  to 
her.” 

“  You  wanted  me  to  bring  her  up  right;  and  you  ought 


860 


UNCLH  tom’s  CABIN;  OB| 

to  remember  she  is  a  reasonable  creature,  and  be  careful  of 
your  influence  over  her.” 

“  Oh,  dismal!  so  I  ought;  but,  as  Topsy  herself  saj^s,  ‘  Ps 
so  wicked/  ” 

In  very  much  this  way  Topsy’s  training  proceeded,  for  a 
year  or  two, — Miss  Ophelia  worrying  herself  from  day  io 
day,  with  her  as  a  kind  of  chronic  plague,  to  whose  inflic¬ 
tions  she  became  in  time  as  accustomed  as  persons  some  ¬ 
times  do  to  the  neuralgia  or  sick-headache. 

St.  Clare  took  the  same  kind  of  amusement  in  the  child 
that  a  man  might  in  the  tricks  of  a  parrot  or  a  pointer. 
Topsy,  whenever  her  sins  brought  her  into  disgrace  in  other 
quarters,  always  took  refuge  behind  his  chair;  and  St.  Clare, 
in  one  way  or  other,  would  make  peace  for  her.  From  him 
she  got  many  a  stray  picayune,  which  she  laid  out  in  nuts  and 
candies,  and  distributed  with  careless  generosity  to  all  the 
children  in  the  family;  for  Topsy,  to  do  her  justice,  was 
good-natured  and  liberal,  and  only  spiteful  in  self-defense. 
She  is  fairly  introduced  into  our  corps  de  ballet ,  and  will  fig¬ 
ure  from  time  to  time  in  her  turn,  with  other  performers. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

keotuck.  qr 

Ottr  readers  may  not  be  unwilling  to  glance  back  for  a 
brief  interval  at  Uncle  Tom’s  cabin  on  the  Kentucky  farm, 
and  see  what  has  been  transpiring  among  those  whom  he 
bad  left  behind. 

It  was  late  in  the  summer  afternoon,  and  the  doors  and 
windows  of  the  large  parlor  all  stood  open,  to  invite  any 
stray  breeze,  that  might  feel  in  good  humor,  to  enter.  Mr. 
Shelby  sat  in  a  large  hall  opening  into  the  room,  and  run¬ 
ning  through  the  whole  length  of  the  house  to  a  balcony 
on  either  end.  Leisurely  tipped  back  in  one  chair,  with  his 
beels  in  another,  he  was  enjoying  his  after-dinner  cigar. 
Mrs.  Shelby  sat  in  the  door,  busy  about  some  fine  sewing; 
she  seemed  like  one  who  had  something  on  her  mind  which 
she  was  seeking  an  opportunity  to  introduce. 

“■  Do  you  know,”  she  said,  “  that  Chloe  has  had  a  letter 
(from  Tom?” 


LIFE  AMONG  THB  LOWLY.  'Wf 

^Ah!  has  she?  Tom’s  got  some  friend  there;*  it  set: ns* 
How  is  the  old  boy?  ” 

“  He  has  been  bought  by  a  very  fine  family,  I  should 
think,”  said  Mrs.  Shelby,— “is  kindly  treated,  and  has  not 
much  to  do.” 

“Ah!  well.  I'm  glad  of  it,— very  glad,”  said  Mr.  Shelby 
heartily.  “  Tom,  1  suppose,  will  get  reconciled  to  a  South¬ 
ern  residence;— hardly  want  to  come  up  here  again.” 

“  On  the  contrary,  he  inquires  very  anxiously,”  said  Mrs. 
Shelby,  “  when  the  money  for  his  redemption  is  to  be  raised.” 

“  I’m  sure  I  don’t  know,”  said  Mr.  Shelby.  “  Once  get 
business  running  wrong,  there  does  seem  to  be  no  end  to 
it.  It's  like  jumping  from  one  bog  to  another,  all  through 
a  swamp;  borrow  of  one  to  pay  another,  and  then  borrow  of 
another  to  pay  one, — and  these  confounded  notes  falling 
due  before  a  man  has  time  to  smoke  a  cigar  and  turn  around, 
— dunning  letters  and  dunning  messages, — all  scamper  and 
hurry-scurry.” 

“  It  does  seem  to  me,  my  dear,  that  something  might  be 
done  to  straighten  matters.  Suppose  we  sell  off  all  the 
horses,  and  sell  one  of  your  farms,  and  pay  up  square?  ” 

“  Oh,  ridiculous,  Emily!  You  are  the  finest  woman  in 
Kentucky;  but  still  you  haven't  sense  to  know  that  you 
don’t  understand  business;— women  never  do,  and  never 
can.” 

“  But,  at  least,”  said  Mrs.  Shelby,  “  could  not  you  give 
me  some  little  insight  into  yours;  a  list  of  all  your  debts,  at 
least,  and  of  all  that  is  owed  to  you,  and  let  me  try  and  see 
if  I  can’t  help  you  to  economize.” 

“  Oh,  bother!  don’t  plague  me,  Emily!— I  can’t  tell  ex¬ 
actly.  I  know  somewhere  about  what  things  are  likely  to  be; 
but  there’s  no  trimming  and  squaring  my  affairs,  as  Ohio© 
trims  crust  off  her  pies.  You  don’t  know  anything  about 
my  business,  I  tell  you.” 

And  Mr.  Shelby,  not  knowing  of  any  other  way  of  en¬ 
forcing  his  ideas,  raised  his  voice,— a  mode  of  argument 
very  convenient  and  convincing  when  a  gentleman  is  dis¬ 
cussing  matters  of  business  with  his  wife. 

Mrs.  Shelby  ceased  talking,  with  something  of  a  sigh.  The 
fact  was,  that  though  her  husband  had  stated  she  was  a 
woman,  she  had  a  clear,  energetic,  practical  mind,  and  a 
force  of  character  every  way  superior  to  that  of  her  hus¬ 
band;  so  that  it  would  not  have  been  m  very  absurd  a  guppt* 


^58  UNCL23  TOM*3  CABIN; 

sition  to  nave  allowed  her  capable  of  managing  as  Mr* 
Shelby  supposed.  Her  heart  was  set  on  performing  her 
promise  to  Tom  and  Aunt  Chloe,  and  she  sighed  as  discour¬ 
agements  thickened  around  her. 

“  Don’t  you  think  we  might  in  some  way  contrive  to 
raise  that  money.  Poor  Aunt  Chloe!  her  heart  is  so  set 
on  it! ” 

“  I'm  sorry,  if  it  is.  I  think  I  was  premature  in  promising. 
I'm  not  sure,  now,  but  it's  the  best  way  to  tell  Chloe,  and  let 
her  make  up  her  mind  to  it.  Tom  'll  have  another  wife  in  a 
year  or  two;  and  she  had  better  take  up  with  somebody 
else.” 

“  Mr.  Shelby,  I  have  taught  my  people  that  their  mar¬ 
riages  are  as  sacred  as  ours.  I  never  could  think  of  giving 
Chloe  such  advice.” 

“  It's  a  pity,  wife,  that  you  have  burdened  them  with  a 
morality  above  their  condition  and  prospects.  I  always 
thought  so.” 

“  It's  only  the  morality  of  the  Bible,  Mr.  Shelby.” 

“  Well,  well,  Emily,  I  don't  pretend  to  interfere  with  your 
religious  notions;  only  they  seem  extremely  unfitted  for 
people  in  that  condition.” 

“  They  are,  indeed,”  said  Mrs.  Shelby,  “  and  that  is  why, 
from  my  soul,  I  hate  the  whole  thing.  I  tell  you,  my  dear,  I 
cannot  absolve  myself  from  the  promises  I  made  to  these 
helpless  creatures.  If  I  can  get  the  money  no  other  "way. 
I  will  take  music  scholars; — I  could  get  enough,  I  know,  and 
earn  the  money  myself.” 

“You  wouldn't  degrade  yourself  that  ‘way,  Emily?  I 
never  could  consent  to  it.” 

“  Degrade!  would  it  degrade  me  as  much  as  to  break  my 
faith  with  the  helpless?  No,  indeed!  ” 

“Well,  you  are  always  heroic  and  transcendental,”  said 
Mr.  Shelby,  “  but  I  think  you  had  better  think  before  you 
undertake  such  a  piece  of  Quixotism.” 

Here  the  conversation  was  interrupted  by  the  appearance 
of  Aunt  Chloe  at  the  end  of  the  veranda. 

“  If  you  please,  missis,”  said  she. 

“Well,  Chloe,  what  is  it?”  said  her  mistress,  rising,  and 
going  to  the  end  of  the  balcony. 

“  If  missis  would  come  and  look  at  dis  yer  lot  o'  poetry.” 

Chloe  had  a  particular  fancy  for  calling  poultry  poetry, 
—an  application  of  language  in  which  she  always  persisted, 


LIE*  AMONG  THE  LOWLf. 


notwithstanding  frequent  corrections  and  advisings  from 
the  young  members  of  the  family. 

“Law  sakes,”  she  would  say,  “I  can’t  see;  one  jis  good 
as  turry, — poetry  suthin’  good,  anyhow;  ”  and  so  poetry 
Chloe  continued  to  call  it. 

Mrs.  Shelby  smiled  as  she  saw  a  prostrate  lot  of  chickens 
and  ducks,  over  which  Chloe  stood,  with  a  very  grave  face 
of  consideration. 

“  I’m  a-thinkin’  whether  missis  would  be  a-havin’  a  chicken 
pie  o’  dese  yer.” 

“Really,  Aunt  Chloe,  I  don’t  much  care; — serve  them 
anyway  you  like.” 

Chloe  stood  handling  them  over  abstractedly;  it  was 
quite  evident  that  the  chickens  were  not  what  she  was  think¬ 
ing  of.  At  last,  with  the  short  laugh  with  which  her  tribe 
often  introduce  a  doubtful  proposal,  she  said: 

“Laws  me,  missis!  what  should  mas’r  and  missis  be  a- 
troublin’  themselves  ’bout  de  money,  and  not  a-usin’  what’s 
right  in  der  hands?  ”  and  Chloe  laughed  again. 

“  I  don’t  understand  you,  Chloe,”  said  Mrs.  Shelby,  noth¬ 
ing  doubting  from  her  knowledge  of  Chloe’s  manner,  that 
she  had  heard  every  word  of  the  conversation  that  had  passed 
between  her  and  her  husband. 

“Why,  laws  me,  missis!”  said  Chloe,  laughing  again, 
“  other  folks  hires  out  dere  niggers  and  makes  money  on 
’em.  Don’t  keep  such  a  tribe  eatin’  ’em  out  of  house  and 
home.” 

“  Well,  Chloe,  whom  do  you  propose  that  we  should  hire 
out?” 

“Laws!  I  an’t  a-proposin’  nothin’;  only  Sam  he  said  dere 
was  one  of  dese  yer  perfectioners,  dey  calls  ’em,  in  Louis¬ 
ville,  said  he  wanted  a  good  hand  at  cake  and  pastry;  and 
he  said  he’d  give  four  dollars  a  week  to  one,  he  did.” 

“  Well,  Chloe?  ” 

“  Well,  laws,  I’s  a-thinkin’,  missis,  it’s  time  Sally  was  put 
along  to  be  doin’  something.  Sally’s  been  under  my  care, 
now,  dis  some  time,  and  she  does  most  as  well  as  me,  consid¬ 
erin’;  and  if  missis  would  only  let  me  go,  I  would  help  fetch 
up  de  money.  I  an’t  afraid  to  put  my  cake,  nor  pies  nother, 
Alongside  no  perfectioner’s .” 

“  Confectioner’s,  Chloe.” 

“Law  sakes,  missis!  ’tan’t  no  odds; — words  is  so  euris? 
oan’t  never  get  ’em  right.” 


§00  UNCLE  TOM?S  cabin;  OB* 

“  But,  Chloe,  do  you  want  to  leave  your  children  ?  9P 

“Laws,  missis!  de  boys  is  big  enough  to  do  day's  works,, 
dey  does  well  enough;  and  Sally,  she'll  take  de  baby,— she's 
such  a  peart  young  un  she  won't  take  no  lookin'  arter." 

“  Louisville  is  a  good  way  off." 

“  Law  sakes!  who's  afeard?— it's  down  river,  somer  near 
my  old  man,  perhaps?"  said  Chloe,  speaking  the  last  in  the 
tone  of  a  question,  and  looking  at  Mrs.  Shelby. 

“  No,  Chloe,  it's  many  a  hundred  miles  off,"  said  Mrs. 
Shelby. 

Chloe's  countenance  fell. 

“  Never  mind;  your  going  there  shall  bring  you  nearer, 
Chloe.  Yes,  you  may  go;  and  your  wages  shall  every  cent  of 
them  be  laid  aside  for  your  husband's  redemption." 

As  when  a  bright  sunbeam  turns  a  dark  cloud  to  silver,  so 
Chloe's  dark  face  brightened  immediately, — it  really  shone. 

“  Laws!  if  missis  isn't  too  good!  I  was  thinkin'  of  dat  ar 
very  thing;  'cause  I  shouldn't  need  no  clothes,  nor  shoes, 
nor  nothin',— I  could  save  every  cent.  How  many  weeks  is 
dere  in  a  year,  missis?" 

“  Fifty-two,"  said  Mrs.  Shelby. 

“ Laws!  now,  dere  is?  and  four  dollars  for  each  on  ’em. 
Why,  how  much'd  dat  ar  be?" 

“  Two  hundred  and  eight  dollars,"  said  Mrs.  Shelby. 

“  Why-e!  "  said  Chloe,  with  an  accent  of  surprise  and  de¬ 
light;  “  and  how  long  would  it  take  me  to  work  it  out, 
missis  ?  " 

“  Some  four  or  five  years,  Chloe;  but,  then,  you  needn't 
do  it  all,— I  shall  add  something  to  it." 

“  I  wouldn't  hear  to  missis  givin'  lessons  nor  nothin'. 
Mas'r's  quite  right  in  dat  ar, — 'twouldn't  do,  noways.  I 
hope  none  our  family  ever  be  brought  to  dat  ar,  while  I's 
got  hands." 

“  Don't  fear,  Chloe;  I'll  take  care  of  the  honor  of  the 
family,"  said  Mrs.  Shelby,  smiling.  “  But  when  do  you  ex¬ 
pect  to  go?  " 

“Well,  I  warn't  speetin'  nothin';  only  Sam,  he's  a-gwine 
to  de  river  with  some  colts,  and  he  said  I  could  go  'long  with 
him;  so  I  jes  put  my  things  together.  If  missis  was  willin', 
I'd  go  with  Sam  to-morrow  morning,  if  missis  would  write 
my  pass,  and  write  me  a  commendation." 

“Well,  Chloe,  I'll  attend  to  it,  if  Mr.  Shelby  has  no  oh* 
lections,  I  must  speak  to  him." 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY. 


261 


Mrs.  Shelby  went  upstairs,  and  Aunt  Chloe,  delighted, 
went  out  to  her  cabin  to  make  her  preparations. 

“  Law  sakes,  Mas’r  George!  ye  didn’t  know  Fs  a-gwine 
to  Louisville,  to-morrow!  ”  she  said  to  George,  as  en¬ 
tering  her  cabin,  he  found  her  busy  in  sorting  over  her 
baby’s  clothes.  “  I  thought  I’d  jis  look  over  sis’s  things, 
and  get  ’em  straightened  up.  But  I’m  gwine,  Mas’r  George, 
gwine  to  have  four  dollars  a  week;  and  missis  is  gwine  to  lay 
it  all  up,  to  buy  back  my  old  man  agin!” 

“  Whew!  ”  said  George,  “  here’s  a  stroke  of  business,  to 
be  sure!  How  are  you  going?” 

“  To-morrow,  wid  Sam.  And  now,  Mas’r  George,  I  knows 
you’ll  jis  sit  down  and  write  to  my  old  man,  and  tell  him  all 
about  it,  won’t  ye?” 

“  To  be  sure,”  said  George;  “  Uncle  Tom  ’ll  be  right  glad 
to  hear  from  us.  I’ll  go  right  in  the  house  for  paper  and 
ink;  and  then,  you  know,  Aunt  Chloe,  I  can  tell  about  the 
new  colts,  and  all.” 

“  Sartin,  sartin,  Mas’r  George;  you  go  ’long,  and  I’ll  get 
ye  up  a  bit  o’  chicken,  or  some  sich;  ye  won’t  have  many 
more  suppers  wid  your  poor  old  aunty.” 

CHAPTER  XXII. 

^  THE  GRASS  WITHERETH — THE  FLOWER  FADETH.” 

Life  passes,  with  us  all,  a  day  at  a  time;  so  it  passed  with 
our  friend  Tom,  till  two  years  were  gone.  Though  parted 
from  all  his  soul  held  dear,  and  though  often  yearning  for 
what  lay  beyond,  still  was  he  never  positively  and  consciously 
miserable;  for,  so  wrell  is  the  harp  of  human  feeling  strung, 
that  nothing  but  a  crash  that  breaks  every  string  can  wholly 
mar  its  harmony;  and,  on  looking  back  to  seasons  which  in 
review  appear  to  us  as  those  of  deprivation  and  trial,  we 
can  remember  that  each  hour,  as  it  glided,  brought  its  di¬ 
versions  and  alleviations,  so  that,  though  not  happy  wholly, 
we  were  not,  either,  wholly  miserable, 

Tom  read  in  his  only  literary  cabinet  of  one  who  had 
“  learned  in  whatsoever  state  he  was,  therewith  to  be  con¬ 
tent.”  It  seemed  to  him  good  and  reasonable  doctrine,  and 
accorded  well  with  the  settled  and  thoughtful  habit  which 
he  had  acquired  from  the  reading  of  that  same  book. 


§09 


TOOLE  tom’s  cabin  ;  OB, 

His  letter  homeward,  as  we  related  in  the  last  chapter, 
was  in  due  time  answered  by  Master  George,  in  a  good  round, 
schoolboy  hand,  that  Tom  said  might  be  read  “  most  aerost 
the  room.”  It  contained  various  refreshing  items  of  home 
intelligence,  with  which  our  reader  is  fully  acquainted; 
stated  how  Aunt  Chloe  had  been  hired  out  to  a  confectioner 
in  Louisville,  where  her  skill  in  the  pastry  line  was  gaining 
wonderful  sums  of  money;  all  of  which,  Tom  was  informed, 
was  to  be  laid  up  to  go  to  make  up  the  sum  of  his  redemp¬ 
tion  money;  Mose  and  Pete  were  thriving,  and  the  baby  was 
trotting  all  about  the  house,  under  the  care  of  Sally  and  the 
family  generally. 

TonTs  cabin  was  shut  up  for  the  present;  but  George  ex¬ 
patiated  brilliantly  on  ornaments  and  additions  to  be  made 
to  it  when  Tom  came  back. 

The  rest  of  this  letter  gave  a  list  of  George’s  school  studies, 
each  one  headed  by  a  flourishing  capital;  and  also  told  the 
names  of  four  new  colts  that  had  appeared  on  the  premises 
since  Tom  left;  and  stated  in  the  same  connection  that 
father  and  mother  were  well.  The  style  of  the  letter  was 
decidedly  concise  and  terse;  but  Tom  thought  it  the  hiost 
wonderful  specimen  of  composition  that  had  appeared  in 
modern  times.  He  was  never  tired  of  looking  at  it,  and  even 
held  a  council  with  Eva  on  the  expediency  of  getting  it 
framed,  to  hang  up  in  his  room.  Nothing  but  the  difficulty 
of  arranging  it  so  that  both  sides  of  the  page  would  show 
at  once  stood  in  the  way  of  this  undertaking. 

The  friendship  between  Tom  and  Eva  had  grown  with 
the  child’s  growth.  It  would  be  hard  to  say  what  place  she 
held  in  the  soft,  impressible  heart  of  her  faithful  attendant. 
He  loved  her  as  something  frail  and  earthly,  yet  almost  wor¬ 
shipped  her  as  something  heavenly  and  divine.  He  gazed 
on  her  as  the  Italian  sailor  gazes  on  his  image  of  the  child 
Jesus,— with  a  mixture  of  reverence  and  tenderness;  and 
to  humor  her  graceful  fancies,  and  meet  those  thousand  sim¬ 
ple  wants  which  invest  childhood  like  a  many-colored  rain¬ 
bow,  was  Tom’s  chief  delight.  In  the  market,  at  morning, 
his  eyes  were  always  on  the  flower-stalls  for  rare  bouquets 
for  her,  and  the  choicest  peach  or  orange  was  slipped  into 
his  pocket  to  give  to  her  when  he  came  back;  and  the  sight 
that  pleased  him  most  was  her  sunny  head  looking  out  the 
gate  for  his  distant  approach,  and  her  childish  question,— 
u  Well,  Uncle  Tom,  what  have  you  got  for  me  to-day?” 


X.IF35  AMONG  THE  LOWLY* 


263 


Nor  was  Eva  less  zealous  in  kind  offices,  in  return.  Though 
a  child,  she  was  a  beautiful  reader; — a  fine,  musical  ear,  a 
quick,  poetic  fancy,  and  an  instinctive  sympathy  with  what 
is  grand  and  noble,  made  her  such  a  reader  of  the  Bible  as 
Tom  had  never  before  heard.  At  first  she  read  to  please 
her  humble  friend;  but  soon  her  own  earnest  nature  threw 
out  its  tendrils,  and  wound  itself  around  the  majestic  book; 
and  Eva  loved  it,  because  it  woke  in  her  strange  yearnings 
and  strong,  dim  emotions,  such  as  impassioned  children  love 
to  feel. 

The  parts  that  pleased  her  most  were  the  Bevelation  and 
the  Prophecies,— parts  whose  dim  and  wondrous  imagery 
and  fervent  language  impressed  her  the  more,  that  she 
questioned  vainly  of  their  meaning;  and  she  and  her  simple 
friend,  the  old  child  and  the  young  one,  felt  just  alike  about 
it.  All  that  they  knew  was  that  they  spoke  of  a  glory  to 
be  revealed,  a  wondrous  something  yet  to  come,  wherein  their 
soul  rejoiced,  yet  knew  not  why;  and  though  it  be  not  so  in 
the  . physical,  yet  in  moral  science  that  which  cannot  be  un¬ 
derstood  is  not  always  profitless.  For  the  soul  awakes,  a 
trembling  stranger,  between  two  dim  eternities, — the  eternal 
past,  the  eternal  future.  The  light  shines  only  on  a  small 
space  around  her;  therefore  she  needs  must  yearn  toward 
the  ^unknown;  and  the  voices  and  shadowy  movings  which 
come  to  her  from  out  the  cloudy  pillar  of  inspiration  have 
each  one  echoes  and  answers  in  her  own  expecting  nature.  Its 
mystic  imageries  are  so  many  talismans  and  gems  inscribed 
with  unknown  hieroglyphics;  she  folds  them  in  her  bosom, 
and  expects  to  read  them  when  she  passes  beyond  the  veil. 

At  this  time  in  our  story  the  whole  St.  Clare  establishment 
is,  for  the  time  being,  removed  to  their  villa  on  Lake  Pont- 
chartrain.  The  heats  of  summer  had  driven  all  who  were 
able  to  leave  the  sultry  and  unhealthy  city  to  seek  the 
shores  of  the  lake  and  its  cool  sea-breezes. 

St.  Clare’s  villa  was  an  East-Indian  cottage,  surrounded 
by  light  verandas  of  bamboo-work,  and  opening  on  all  sides 
into  gardens  and  pleasure-grounds.  The  common  sitting 
room  opened  on  to  a  large  garden,  fragrant  with  every  pic¬ 
turesque  plant  and  flower  of  the  tropics,  where  winding 
paths  ran  down  to  the  very  shores  of  the  lake,  whose  sil¬ 
very  sheet  of  water  lay  there,  rising  and  Mling  in  the  sun¬ 
beams, — a  picture  never  for  an  hour  the  same,  yet  every; 
(hour  more  beautiful. 


8#4  UKCLB  TOM^S  OABIH  |  OB, 

It  is  now  one  of  those  intensely  golden  sunsets  which 
kindle  the  whole  horizon  into  one  blaze  of  glory,  and  make 
the  water  another  sky.  The  lake  lay  in  rosy  or  golden 
streaks,  save  where  white-winged  vessels  glided  hither  and 
thither-  like  so  many  spirits,  and  little  golden  stars  twinkled 
through  the  glow,  and  looked  down  at  themselves  as  they 
trembled  in  the  water. 

Torn  and  Eva  were  seated  on  a  little  mossy  seat  in  an  ar¬ 
bor  at  the  foot  of  the  garden.  It  was  Sunday  evening,  and 
Eva’s  Bible  lay  open  on  her  knee.  She  read,— “  And  I  saw 
a  sea  of  glass  mingled  with  fire.” 

“  Tom,”  said  Eva,  suddenly  stopping,  and  pointing  to  the 
lake,  “  there  ’tis.” 

“  What,  Miss  Eva?  ” 

“  Don’t  you  see, — there?”  said  the  child,  pointing  to  the 
glassy  water,  which,  as  it  rose  and  fell,  reflected  the  golden 
glow  of  the  sky.  “  There’s  6  a  sea  of  glass,  mingled  with 
fire.’  ” 

“  True  enough.  Miss  Eva,”  said  Tom;  and  Tom  sang; 

“  Oil,  bad  I  the  wings  of  the  morning, 

I’d  fly  away  to  Canaan’s  shore  ; 

Bright  angels  should  convey  me  home, 

To  the  New  Jerusalem.” 

“  Where  do  you  suppose  New  Jerusalem  is,  Uncle  Tom?” 
said  Eva. 

“  Oh,  up  in  the  clouds,  Miss  Eva.” 

“  Then  I  think  I  see  it,”  said  Eva.  “  Look  in  those 
clouds!— they  look  like  great  gates  of  pearl;  and  you  can 
see  beyond  them,— far,  far  off, — -it’s  all  gold.  Tom  sing 
about  ‘  spirits  bright.’  ” 

Tom  sung  the  words  of  a  well-known  Methodist  hymn: 

“  I  see  a  band  of  spirits  bright, 

That  taste  the  glories  there  ; 

They  all  are  robed  in  spotless  white. 

And  conquering  palms  they  bear.” 

^ Uncle  Tom,  I’ve  seen  them”  said  Eva. 

Tom  had  no  doubt  of  it  at  all;  it  did  not  surprise  him 
Jfche  least.  If  Eva  had  told  him  she  had  been  to  heaven,  ha 
Would  have  thought  it  entirely  probable. 

*  They  come  to  me  sometimes  in  my  sleep,  those  spirits;  * 


juIFB  AMONG  TUB  LOWLY*  S0§ 

and  Eva’s  eyes  grew  dreamy,  and  she  hummed  in  a  low 
voice: 

14  They  all  are  robed  in  spotless  white, 

And  conquering  palms  they  bear/  ’ 

“  Uncle  Tom/’  said  Eva,  “  I’m  going  there.” 

“  Where,  Miss  Eva?  ” 

The  child  rose  and  pointed  her  little  hand  to  the  sky;  the 
glow  of  evening  lit  her  golden  hair  and  flushed  cheek  with 
a  kind  of  unearthly  radiance,  and  her  eyes  were  bent  ear¬ 
nestly  on  the  skies. 

“  I’m  going  there”  she  said,  “  to  the  spirits  bright,  Tom; 
Fm  going  before  long,” 

The  faithful  old  heart  felt  a  sudden  thrust;  and  Tom 
thought  how  often  he  had  noticed,  within  six  months,  that 
Eva’s  little  hands  had  grown  thinner,  and  her  skin  more 
transparent,  and  her  breath  shorter;  and  how,  when  she  ran 
or  played  in  the  garden,  as  she  once  could  for  hours,  she  be¬ 
came  soon  so  tired  and  languid.  He  had  heard  Miss  Ophelia 
speak  often  of  a  cough  that  all  her  medicaments  could  not 
cure;  and  even  now  that  fervent  cheek  and  little  hand  were 
burning  with  hectic  fever;  and  yet  the  thought  that  Eva’s 
words  suggested  had  never  come  to  him  till  now. 

Has  there  ever  been  a  child  like  Eva?  Yes,  there  have 
been;  but  their  names  are  always  on  gravestones,  and  their 
sweet  smiles,  their  heavenly  eyes,  their  singular  words  and 
ways  are  among  the  buried  treasures  of  yearning  hearts.  In 
how  many  families  do  you  hear  the  legend  that  all  the  good¬ 
ness  and  graces  of  the  living  are  nothing  to  the  peculiar 
charms  of  one  who  is  not  f  It  is  as  if  heaven  had  an  especial 
band  of  angels,  whose  office  it  was  to  sojourn  for  a  season 
here,  and  endear  to  them  the  wayward  human  heart,  that 
they  might  bear  it  upward  with  them  in  their  homeward 
flight.  When  you  see  that  deep,  spiritual  light  in  the  eye, 
— when  the  little  soul  reveals  itself  in  words  sweeter  and 
wiser  than  the  ordinary  words  of  children,— hope  not  to  re¬ 
tain  that  child;  for  the  seal  of  heaven  is  on  it,  and  the  light 
of  immortality  looks  out  from  its  eyes. 

Even  so,  beloved  Eva!  fair  star  of  thy  dwelling!  Thou  art 
passing  away;  but  they  that  love  thee  dearest  know  it  not. 

The  colloquy  between  Tom  and  Eva  was  interrupted  by  a 
hasty  call  from  Miss  Ophelia. 

u  Eva — Eva!— why,  child,  the  dew  is  falling;  you  mustn't 
be  out  there!  ” 


B@&  UNCLE  TOMfS  CABIN  ;  OS 

Eva  and  Tom  hastened  in. 

Miss  Ophelia  was  old,  and  skilled  in  the  tactics  of  iHirge 
ing.  She  was  from  New  England,  and  knew  well  the  first 
guileful  footsteps  of  that  soft,  insidious  disease  which  sweeps 
away  so  many  of  the  fairest  and  loveliest,  and,  before 
one  fiber  of  life  seems  broken,  seals  them  irrevocably  for 
death. 

She  had  noted  the  slight,  dry  cough,  the  daily  brightening 
cheek;  nor  could  the  luster  of  the  eye,  and  the  airy  buoyancy 
born  of  fever,  deceive  her. 

She  tried  to  communicate  her  fears  to  St.  Clare;  but  he 
threw  back  her  suggestions  with  a  restless  petulance  un¬ 
like  his  usual  careless  good-humor. 

“  Don’t  be  croaking,  cousin, — I  hate  it! 99  he  would  say; 
“  don’t  you  see  that  the  child  is  only  growing?  Children 
always  lose  strength  when  they  grow  fast.” 

“  But  she  has  that  cough!  ” 

c<  Oh,  nonsense  of  that  cough!— it  is  not  anything.  She 
has  taken  a  little  cold,  perhaps.” 

“Well,  that  was  just  the  way  Eliza  Jane  was  taken,  and 
Ellen  and  Maria  Sanders.” 

“  Oh,  stop  these  hobgoblin  nurse-legends!  You  old  hands 
get  so  wise  that  a  child  cannot  cough  or  sneeze  but  you  see 
desperation  and  ruin  at  hand.  Only  take  care  of  the  child, 
keep  her  from  the  night  air,  and  don’t  let  her  play  too  hard, 
and  she’ll  do  well  enough.” 

So  St.  Clare  said;  but  he  grew  nervous  and  restless.  He 
watched  Eva  feverishly  day  by  day,  as  might  be  told  by  the 
frequency  with  which  he  repeated  over  that  “  the  child  was 
quite  well,” — that  there  wasn’t  anything  in  that  cough, — it 
was  only  some  little  stomach  affection,  such  as  children  often 
had.  But  he  kept  by  her  more  than  before,  took  her  oftener 
to  ride  with  him,  brought  home  every  few  days  some  re¬ 
ceipt  or  strengthening  mixture, — “  not,”  he  said,  “  that  the 
child  needed  it,  but  then  it  would  not  do  her  any  harm.” 

If  it  must  be  told,  the  thing  that  struck  a  deeper  pang 
to  his  heart  than  anything  else  was  the  daily  increasing  ma¬ 
turity  of  the  child’s  mind  and  feelings.  While  still  retain¬ 
ing  all  a  child’s  fanciful  graces,  yet  she  often  dropped,  un¬ 
consciously,  words  of  such  a  reach  of  thought,  and  strange, 
unworldly  wisdom,  that  they  seemed  to  be  an  inspiration. 
At  such  times  St.  Clare  would  feel  a  sudden  thrill,  and  clasp 
her  in  his  arms,  as  if  that  fond  clasp  could  save  her;  and 


LIFE  AMONG-  THE  LOWLY,  t6fr 

Ms  heart  rose  up  with  wild  determination  to  keep  her*  never 
to  let  her  go. 

The  child’s  whole  heart  and  soul  seemed  absorbed  m  works 
of  love  and  kindness.  Impulsively  generous  she  had  always 
been;  but  there  was  a  touching  and  womanly  thoughtfulness 
about  her  now*  that  everyone  noticed.  She  still  loved  to  play 
with  Topsy  and  the  various  colored  children;  but  she  now 
seemed  rather  a  spectator  than  an  actor  of  their  plays,  and 
she  would  sit  for  half  an  hour  at  a  time,  laughing  at  the 
odd  tricks  of  Topsy,— and  then  a  shadow  would  seem  to 
pass  across  her  face,  her  eyes  grew  misty,  and  her  thoughts 
were  afar. 

“Mamma,”  she  said  suddenly  to  her  mother  one  day, 
“why  don’t  we  teach  our  servants  to  read?” 

“  What  a  question,  child!  People  never  do.” 

“Why  don’t  they?”  said  Eva. 

“  Because  it  is  no  use  for  them  to  read.  It  don’t  help 
them  to  work  any  better,  and  they  are  not  made  for  anything 
else.” 

“  But  they  ought  to  read  the  Bible,  mamma,  to  learn  God’s 
will.” 

“  Oh,  they  can  get  that  read  to  them  all  they  need.” 

“  It  seems  to  me,  mamma,  the  Bible  is  for  everyone  to 
read  themselves.  They  need  it  a  great  many  times  when 
there  is  nobody  to  read  it.” 

“  Eva,  you  are  an  odd  child,”  said  her  mother. 

“  Miss  Ophelia  has  taught  Topsy  to  read,”  continued  Eva, 

“Yes,  and  you  see  how  much  good  it  does.  Topsy  is  the 
worst  creature  I  ever  saw!” 

“  Here’s  *poor  Mammy!”  said  Eva.  “She  does  love  the 
Bible  so  much,  and  wishes  so  she  could  read!  And  what  will 
she  do  when  I  can’t  read  to  her?” 

Marie  was  busy  turning  over  the  contents  of  a  drawer, 
as  she  answered: 

“Well,  of  course,  by  and  by,  Eva,  you  will  have  other 
things  to  think  of  besides  reading  the  Bible  round  to  serv¬ 
ants.  Not  but  that  it  is  very  proper;  I’ve  done  it  myself, 
when  I  had  health.  But  when  you  come  to  be  dressing  and 
going  into  company,  you  won’t  have  time.  See  here!  ”  she 
added.  “  these  jewels  I’m  going  to  give  you  when  you  come 
out.  I  wore  them  to  my  first  ball.  I  can  tell  you,  Eva,  I 
made  a  sensation.” 

Eva  took  the  jewel-case,  and  lifted  from  it  a  diamond  neck* 


®88 


UNCLE  tom’s  cabin; 

lace.  Her  large,  thoughtful  eyes  rested  on  it,  but  it  wm 
plain  her  thoughts  were  elsewhere. 

“  How  sober  you  look,  child!  ”  said  Marie. 

“  Are  these  worth  a  great  deal  of  money,  mamma?  ” 

a  To  be  sure,  they  are.  Father  sent  to  France  for  them. 
They  are  worth  a  small  fortune.” 

“  I  wish  I  had  them,”  said  Eva,  “  to  do  what  I  pleased 

vWith!  ” 

-  What  would  you  do  with  them?  ” 

“  Fd  sell  them,  and  buy  a  place  in  the  free  States,  and 
take  all  our  people  there,  and  hire  teachers  to  teach  them  to 
read  and  write.” 

Eva  was  cut  short  by  her  mother’s  laughing. 

“  Set  up  a  boarding-school!  Wouldn’t  you  teach  them  to 
play  on  the  piano  and  paint  on  velvet?  ” 

I’d  teach  them  to  read  their  own  Bible,  and  write  their 
own  letters,  and  read  letters  that  are  written  to  them,”  said 
Eva  steadily.  “  I  know,  mamma,  it  does  come  very  hard  on 
them  that  they  can’t  do  these  things.  Tom  feels  it, — 
Mammy  does,— a  great  many  of  them  do.  I  think  it’s 
wrong.” 

“  Come,  come,  Eva,  you  are  only  a  child!  Yon  don’t  know 
anything  about  these  things,”  said  Marie;  “  besides,  your 
talking  makes  my  head  ache.” 

Marie  always  had  a  headache  on  hand  for  any  conversation 
that  did  not  exactly  suit  her. 

Eva  stole  away;  but  after  that  she  assiduously  gave  Mammy 
reading  lessons. 

CHAPTER  XXIII. 

HENRIQUE. 

About  this  time  St.  Clare’s  brother  Alfred,  with  his  eldest 
son,  a  boy  of  twelve,  spent  a  day  or  two  with  the  family  at 
the  lake. 

No  sight  could  be  more  singular  and  beautiful  than  that 
of  these  twin  brothers.  Nature,  instead  of  instituting  re¬ 
semblances  between  them,  had  made  them  opposites  on  every 
point;  yet  a  mysterious  tie  seemed  to  unite  them  in  a  closer 
friendship  than  ordinary. 

They  used  to  saunter,  arm  in  arm,  up  and  down  the  alley® 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY. 


269 

and  walks  of  the  garden,* — Augustine,  with  his  blue  eyes  and 
golden  hair,  his  ethereally  flexible  form  and  vivacious  fea¬ 
tures;  and  Alfred,  dark-eyed,  with  haughty,  Boman  profile, 
firmly  knit  limbs,  and  decided  bearing.  They  were  always 
abusing  each  other’s  opinions  and  practices,  and  yet  never 
a  whit  the  less  absorbed  in  each  other’s  society;  in  fact,  the 
very  contrariety  seemed  to  unite  them,  like  the  attraction 
between  the  opposite  poles  of  the  magnet. 

Henrique,  the  eldest  son  of  Alfred,  was  a  noble,  dark¬ 
eyed,  princely  boy,  full  of  vivacity  and  spirit;  and  from 
the  first  moment  of  introduction  seemed  to  be  perfectly 
fascinated  by  the  spirituelle  graces  of  his  cousin  Evan¬ 
geline. 

Eva  had  a  little  pet  pony,  of  a  snowy  whiteness.  It  was 
easy  as  a  cradle,  and  as  gentle  as  its  little  mistress;  and  this 
pony  was  now  brought  up  to  the  back  veranda  by  Tom, 
while  a  little  mulatto  boy  of  about  thirteen  led  along  a  small 
black  Arabian,  which  had  just  been  imported,  at  a  great  ex¬ 
pense,  for  Henrique. 

Henrique  had  a  boy’s  pride  in  his  new  possession;  and, 
as  he  advanced  and  took  the  reins  out  of  the  hand  of  his 
little  groom,  he  looked  carefully  over  him,  and  his  brow 
darkened. 

“  What’s  this,  Dodo,  you  little  lazy  dog!  you  haven’t  rubbed 
my  horse  down  this  morning.” 

“  Yes,  mas’r,”  said  Dodo  submissively;  “he  got  that  dust 
on  his  own  self.” 

“  You  rascal,  shut  your  mouth!  ”  said  Henrique  violently, 
raising  his  riding- whip.  “  How  dare  you  speak?” 

The  boy  was  a  handsome,  bright-eyed  mulatto,  of  just 
Henrique’s  size,  and  his  curling  hair  hung  round  a  high  bold 
forehead.  He  had  white  blood  in  his  veins,  as  could  be  seen 
by  the  quick  flush  in  his  cheek,  and  the  sparkle  of  his  eye, 
as  he  eagerly  tried  to  speak. 

“  Mas’r  Henrique - ”  he  began. 

Henrique  struck  him  across  the  face  with  his  riding-whip, 
and,  seizing  one  of  his  arms,  forced  him  on  to  his  knees  and 
beat  him  till  he  was  out  of  breath. 

“There,  you  impudent  dog!  Now  will  you  learn  not  to 
answer  back  when  I  speak  to  you?  Take  the  horse  back  and 
clean  him  properly.  I’ll  teach  you  your  place!  ” 

“  Young  mas’r,”  said  Tom,  “  I  specs  what  he  was  gwine  to 
say  was5  that  the  horse  would  roll  when  he  was  bringing 


S  70 


TJKCL®  tom’s  caeih;  OB* 

him  up  from  the  stable;  he’s  so  full  of  spirits, — that’s  the 
way  he  got  that  dirt  on  him;  I  looked  to  his  cleaning.” 

“  You  hold  yoxr  tongue  till  you’re  asked  to  speak!  ”  said 
Henrique,  turning  on  his  heel  and  walking  up  the  steps  to 
speak  to  Eva,  who  stood  in  her  riding-dress. 

“  Dear  cousin.  I’m  sorry  this  stupid  fellow  has  kept  you 
waiting,”  he  said.  “  Let’s  sit  down  here  on  this  seat  till 
they  come.  What’s  the  matter,  cousin?— you  look  sober.” 

“  How  could  you  be  so  cruel  and  wicked  to  poor  Dodo?  ” 
said  Eva. 

“  Cruel, — wicked!  ”  said  the  boy,  with  unaffected  surprise, 
"  What  do  you  mean,  dear  Eva?  ” 

“  I  don’t  want  you  to  call  me  dear  Eva,  when  you  do  so,” 
said  Eva. 

“  Dear  cousin,  you  don’t  know  Dodo;  it  is  the  only  way  to 
manage  him,  he’s  so  full  of  lies  and  excuses.  The  only  way 
is  to  put  him  down  at  once, — not  let  him  open  his  mouth; 
that’s  the  way  papa  manages.” 

“  But  Uncle  Tom  said  it  was  an  accident,  and  he  never 
tells  what  isn’t  true.” 

“  He’s  an  uncommon  old  nigger,  then!  ”  said  Henrique. 
“  Dodo  will  lie  as  fast  as  he  can  speak.” 

“  You  frighten  him  into  deceiving,  if  you  treat  him  so.” 

“  Why,  Eva,  you’ve  really  taken  such  a  fancy  to  Dodo, 
that  I  shall  be  jealous.” 

“  But  you  beat  him, — and  he  didn’t  deserve  it.” 

“  Oh,  well,  it  may  go  for  some  time  when  he  does,  and 
don’t  get  it.  A  few  cuts  never  come  amiss  with  Dodo,— 
he’s  a  regular  spirit,  I  can  tell  you;  but  I  won’t  beat  him 
again  before  you,  if  it  troubles  you.” 

Eva  was  not  satisfied,  but  found  it  in  vain  to  try  to  make 
her  handsome  cousin  understand  her  feelings. 

Dodo  soon  appeared  with  the  horses. 

“Well,  Dodo,  you’ve  done  pretty  well,  this  time,”  said  his 
young  master,  with  a  more  gracious  air.  “  Come,  now,  and 
hold  Miss  Eva’s  horse,  while  I  put  her  on  the  saddle.” 

Dodo  came  and  stood  by  Eva’s  pony.  His  face  was  troubled, 
his  eyes  looked  as  if  he  had  been  crying. 

Henrique,  who  valued  himself  on  his  gentlemanly  adroit¬ 
ness  in  all  matters  of  gallantry,  soon  had  his  fair  cousin  in 
the  saddle,  and  gathering  the  reins,  placed  them  in  her 
hands. 

But  Eva  bent  to  the  other  side  of  the  horse  where  Dodo 


3LIFB  AMONG  THE  LOWLY.  Sfi 

was  standing,  and  said,  as  he  relinquished  the  reins,— 
“  That’s  a  good  boy,  Dodo; — thank  you! ” 

Dodo  looked  up  in  amazement  into  the  sweet  young  face; 
the  blood  rushed  to  his  cheeks,  and  tears  to  his  eyes. 

“  Here,  Dodo,”  said  his  master  imperiously. 

Dodo  sprang  and  held  the  horse,  while  his  master  mounted. 

“  There’s  a  picayune  for  you  to  buy  candy  with,  Dodo,” 
said  Henrique;  “  go  get  some.” 

And  Henrique  cantered  down  the  walk  after  Eva.  Dodo 
stood  looking  after  the  two  children.  One  had  given  him 
money;  and  one  had  given  him  what  he  wanted  far  more,— 
a  kind  word,  kindly  spoken.  Dodo  had  been  only  a  few 
months  away  from  his  mother.  His  master  had  bought  him 
at  a  slave  warehouse,  for  his  handsome  face,  to  be  a  match 
to  the  handsome  pony;  and  he  was  now  getting  his  breaking 
in  at  the  hands  of  his  young  master. 

The  scene  of  the  beating  had  been  witnessed  by  the  two 
brothers  St.  Clare,  from  another  part  of  the  garden. 

Augustine’s  cheek  flushed;  but  he  only  observed,  with  his 
usual  sarcastic  carelessness: 

“  I  suppose  that’s  what  we  may  call  republican  education, 
Alfred?” 

“  Henrique  is  a  devil  of  a  fellow,  when  his  blood’s  up,” 
said  Alfred  carelessly. 

“I  suppose  you  consider  this  an  instructive  practice  for 
him,”  said  Augustine  dryly. 

“  I  couldn’t  help  it  if  I  didn’t.  Henrique  is  a  regular  lit¬ 
tle  tempest; — his  mother  and  I  have  given  him  up  long  ago. 
But,  then,  that  Dodo  is  a  perfect  sprite,— no  amount  of 
whipping  can  hurt  him.” 

“  And  this  by  way  of  teaching  Henrique  the  first  verse  of 
a  Republican’s  catechism,  ‘  All  men  are  born  free  and 
equal!  ’  ” 

“  Poh!  ”  said  Alfred;  “  one  of  Tom  Jefferson’s  pieces  of 
French  sentiment  and  humbug.  It’s  perfectly  ridiculous  to 
have  that  going  the  rounds  among  us,  to  this  day.” 

“  I  think  it  is,”  said  St.  Clare  significantly. 

“  Because,”  said  Alfred,  “we  can  see  plainly  enough  that 
all  men  are  not  born  free,  nor  born  equal;  they  are  born  any¬ 
thing  else.  For  my  part,  I  think  half  this  republican  talk 
sheer  humbug.  It  is  the  educated,  the  intelligent,  the 
wealthy,  the  refined,  who  ought  to  have  equal  rights,  and 
not  the  canaille 99 


872  uncle  tom’s  cabin:  oe, 

"  If  you  can  keep  the  canaille  of  that  opinion/*  said  An** 
gustine.  “  They  took  their  turn  once,  in  France.” 

“  Of  course,  they  must  be  kept  down ,  consistently,  steadily, 
as  I  shov, Id”  said  Alfred,  setting  his  foot  hard  down,  as  if 
lie  were  standing  on  somebody. 

“  It  makes  a  terrible  slip  when  they  get  up,”  said  Augus¬ 
tine,—"  in  St.  Domingo,  for  instance.” 

"Poh!”  said  Alfred,  “  well  take  care  of  that,  in  this 
country.  We  must  set  our  face  against  all  this  educating, 
elevating  talk  that  is  getting  about  now;  the  lower  class 
must  not  be  educated.” 

"  That  is  past  praying  for,”  said  Augustine;  “  educated 
they  will  be,  and  we  have  only  to  say  how.  Our  system  is 
educating  them  in  barbarism  and  brutality.  We  are  breaking 
all  humanizing  ties,  and  making  them  brute  beasts;  and  if 
they  get  the  upper  hand,  such  we  shall  find  them.” 

a  They  never  shall  get  the  upper  hand!  ”  said  Alfred. 

"  That’s  right,”  said  St.  Clare;  “  put  on  the  steam,  fasten 
down  the  escape-valve,  and  sit  on  it,  and  see  where  youTl 
land,” 

"Well,”  said  Alfred,  "we  will  see.  I’m  not  afraid  to  sit 
on  the  escape-valve,  as  long  as  the  boilers  are  strong  and 
the  machinery  works  well.” 

“  The  nobles  in  Louis  XYI.’s  time  thought  just  so;  and 
Austria  and  Pius  IX.  think  so  now;  and,  some  pleasant  morn¬ 
ing,  you  may  all  be  caught  up  to  meet  each  other  in  the  air, 
when  the  boilers  burst” 

“  Dies  declarabit”  said  Alfred,  laughing. 

"  I  tell  you,”  said  Augustine,  “  if  there  is  anything  that 
is  revealed  with  the  strength  of  a  divine  law  in  our  times, 
it  is  that  the  masses  are  to  rise,  and  the  under  classes  become 
the  upper  one.” 

"  That’s  one  of  your  red  republican  humbugs,  Augustine! 
Why  didn’t  you  ever  take  to  the  stump; — you’d  make  a  fa¬ 
mous  stump  orator!  Well,  I  hope  I  shall  be  dead  before  this 
millennium  of  your  greasy  masses  comes  on.” 

“  Greasy  or  not  greasy,  they  will  govern  you ,  when  their 
time  comes,”  said  Augustine;  “  and  they  will  be  just  such 
rulers  as  you  make  them.  The  French  noblesse  chose  to 
have  the  people  ‘  sans  culotte /  and  they  had  6  sans  culotte  ’ 
governors  to  their  hearts’  content.  The  people  of 
Hayti— ” 

"  Oh,  come,  Augustine,  as  if  we  hadn’t  had  enough  of  that 


XiIFB  am;m  the  lowly.  OT3 

abominable,  contemptible  Hayti!  The  Haytieni  were  not 
Anglo-Saxon;  if  they  had  been.,  there  would  have  been 
another  story.  The  Anglo-Saxon  is  the  dominant  race  of  the 
world,  and  is  to  be  so  .” 

“  Well,  there  is  a  pretty  fair  infusion  of  Anglo-Saxon 
blood  among  our  slaves  now,”  said  Augustine.  “  There  are 
plenty  among  them  who  have  only  enough  of  the  African  to 
give  a  sort  of  tropical  warmth  and  fervor  to  our  calculating 
firmness  and  foresight.  If  ever  the  San  Domingo  hour 
comes,  Anglo-Saxon  blood  will  lead  on  the  day.  Sons  of 
white  fathers,  with  all  our  haughty  feelings  burning  in  their 
veins,  will  not  always  be  bought  and  sold  and  traded.  They 
will  rise,  and  raise  with  them  their  mother’s  race.” 

“  Stuff! — nonsense!  ” 

“  Well,”  said  Augustine,  “  there  goes  an  old  saying  to  this 
effect:  ‘  As  it  was  in  the  days  of  Noah,  so  shall  it  be; — they 
ate,  they  drank,  they  planted,  they  builded,  and  knew  not  till 
the  flood  came  and  took  them.’  ” 

“  On  the  whole,  Augustine,  I  think  your  talents  might 
do  for  a  circuit-rider,”  said  Alfred,  laughing.  “  Never  you 
fear  for  us;  possession  is  our  nine  points.  We’ve  got  the 
power.  This  subject  race,”  said  he,  stamping  firmly,  “  is 
down,  and  shall  stay  down!  We  have  energy  enough  to  man¬ 
age  our  own  powder.” 

“  Sons  trained  like  your  Henrique  will  be  grand  guardians 
of  your  powder-magazines,”  said  Augustine,— “  so  cool  and 
self-possessed!  The  proverb  says,  *  They  that  cannot  gov¬ 
ern  themselves  cannot  govern  others.’  ” 

“  There  is  a  trouble  there,”  said  Alfred  thoughtfully; 
“  there’s  no  doubt  that  our  system  is  a  difficult  one  to  train 
children  under.  It  gives  too  free  scope  to  the  passions  alto¬ 
gether,  which,  in  our  climate,  are  hot  enough.  I  find  trouble 
with  Henrique.  The  boy  is  generous  and  warm-hearted, 
but  a  perfect  fire-cracker  when  excited.  I  believe  I  shall  send 
him  North  for  his  education,  where  obedience  is  more  fash¬ 
ionable,  and  where  he  will  associate  more  with  equals  and 
less  with  dependents.” 

“  Since  training  children  is  the  staple  work  of  the  hu¬ 
man  race,”  said  Augustine,  “  I  should  think  it  something  of 
a  consideration  that  our  system  does  not  work  well  there.” 

“  It  does  not  for  some  things,”  said  Alfred;  “  for  others, 
again,  it  does.  It  makes  boys  manly  and  courageous;  and 
the  very  vices  of  an  abject  race  tend  to  strengthen  in  them. 


tmcLB  tom’s  cabin  |  oe$ 


the  opposite  virtues.  I  think  Henrique,  now,  has  a  keener 
sense  of  the  beauty  of  truth  from  seeing  lying  and  deception 
the  universal  badge  of  slavery.” 

“A  Christian-like  view  of  the  subject,  certainly!”  said 
Augustine. 

“  It’s  true,  Christian-like  or  not;  and  is  about  as  Chris¬ 
tian-like  as  most  other  things  in  the  world,”  said  Alfred. 

“  That  may  be,”  said  St.  Clare. 

“  Well,  there’s  no  use  in  talking,  Augustine.  I  believe  we’ve 
been  round  and  round  this  old  track  five  hundred  times,  more 
or  less.  What  do  you  say  to  a  game  of  backgammon?  ” 

The  two  brothers  ran  up  the  veranda  steps  and  were  soon 
seated  at  a  light  bamboo  stand  with  the  backgammon  board 
between  them.  As  they  were  setting  their  men,  Alfred  said: 

“  I  tell  you,  Augustine,  if  I  thought  as  you  do  I  should 
do  something.” 

“  I  dare  say  you  would,— you  are  one  of  the  doing  sort, — 
but  what?” 

“  Why,  elevate  your  own  servants,  for  a  specimen,”  said 
Alfred,  with  a  half-scornful  smile. 

“  You  might  as  well  set  Mount  iEtna  on  them  flat  and 
tell  them  to  stand  up  under  it  as  tell  me  to  elevate  my 
servants  under  all  the  superincumbent  mass  of  society  upon 
them.  One  man  can  do  nothing  against  the  whole  action 
of  a  community.  Education,  to  do  anything,  must  be  a 
State  education;  or  there  must  be  enough  agreed  in  it  to 
make  a  current.” 

“  You  take  the  first  throw,”  said  Alfred;  and  the  brothers 
were  soon  lost  in  the  game,  and  heard  no  more  till  the  scrap¬ 
ing  of  horses’  feet  was  heard  under  the  veranda. 

“  There  come  the  children,”  said  Augustine,  rising. 
“  Look  here,  Alf !  Did  you  ever  see  anything  so  beautiful?  ” 
And,  in  truth,  it  was  a  beautiful  sight.  Henrique,  with  his 
bold  brow,  and  dark,  glossy  curls,  and  glowing  cheek,  was 
laughing  gayly,  as  he  bent  toward  his  fair  cousin  as  they 
came  on.  She  was  dressed  in  a  blue  riding-dress,  with  a 
cap  of  the  same  color.  Exercise  had  given  a  brilliant  hue  to 
her  cheeks  and  heightened  the  effect  of  her  singularly  trans¬ 
parent  skin  and  golden  hair. 

“  Good  Heavens!  what  perfectly  dazzling  beauty!  ”  said 
Alfred.  “  I  tell  you,  Auguste,  won’t  she  make  some  hearts 
ache,  one  of  these  days?” 

.  *  She  ■  flL  too  truly, — God  knows  I’m  afraid  so'  ”  sail 


LIFE  AMOWG  THE  LOWLY*  $7§ 

St.  Clare,  in  a  tone  of  sudden  bitterness,  as  he  hurried  down 
to  take  her  off  her  horse. 

"Eva,  darling!  you're  not  much  tired?"  he  said,  as  he 
clasped  her  in  his  arms. 

^  No,  papa,"  said  the  child;  but  her  short,  hard  breathing 
alarmed  her  father. 

“  How  could  you  ride  so  fast,  dear?— you  know  it's  bad  for 
you." 

“  I  felt  so  well,  papa,  and  liked  it  so  much  i  forgot." 

St.  Clare  carried  her  in  his  arms  into  the  parlor  and  laid 
her  on  the  sofa. 

“  Henrique,  you  must  be  careful  of  Eva,"  said  he;  “  you 
mustn't  ride  fast  with  her." 

w  I'll  take  her  under  my  care,"  said  Henrique,  seating 
himself  by  the  sofa  and  taking  Eva's  hand. 

Eva  soon  found  herself  much  better.  Her  father  and  uncle 
resumed  their  game,  and  the  children  were  left  together. 

“  Do  you  know,  Eva,  I'm  so  sorry  papa  is  only  going  to 
stay  two  days  here  and  then  I  shan't  see  you  again  for  ever 
so  long!  If  I  stayed  with  you  I'd  try  to  be  good  and  not 
be  cross  to  Dodo  and  so  on.  I  don't  mean  to  treat  Dodo 
ill;  but,  you  know,  I've  got  such  a  quick  temper.  I'm  not 
really  bad  to  him,  though.  I  give  him  a  picayune,  now  and 
then;  and  you  see  he  dresses  well.  I  think,  on  the  whole, 
Dodo’s  pretty  well  off." 

“  W ould  you  think  you  were  well  off  if  there  were  not 
one  creature  in  the  world  near  you  to  love  you?  " 

“I? — Well,  of  course  not." 

“  And  you  have  taken  Dodo  away  from  all  the  friends  he 
ever  had,  and  now  he  has  not  a  creature  to  love  him;— no¬ 
body  can  be  good  that  way." 

“  Well,  I  can't  help  it,  as  I  know  of.  I  carp't  get  his  mother 
and  I  can't  love  him  myself,  nor  anybody  else,  as  I 
know  of." 

“Why  can't  you?  "  said  Eva. 

“ Love  Dodo!  Why,  Eva,  you  wouldn't  have  me!  I  inay 
like  him  well  enough;  but  you  don't  love  your  servants." 

“  I  do,  indeed." 

“  How  odd! " 

“  Don't  the  Bible  say  we  must  love  everybody?  " 

“  Oh,  the  Bible!  To  be  sure,  it  says  a  great  many  such 
things;  but.  then,  nobody  ever  thinks  of  doing  them,— you 
know,  Eva.  nobody  does," 


Sftfc  tJKCL®  TOM9S  CABIN;  OB 3 

Eva  did  not  speak;  her  eyes  were  fixed  and  tkougWu!  lea 
a  few  moments. 

“  At  any  rate,”  she  said,  “  dear  cousin,  do  love  poor  Dodd’ 
and  be  kind  to  him,  for  my  sake!  ” 

“  I  could  love  anything  for  your  sake,  dear  cousin;  for  I 
really  think  you  are  the  loveliest  creature  that  I  ever  saw!  ” 
And  Henrique  spoke  with  an  earnestness  that  flushed  his 
handsome  face.  Eva  received  it  with  perfect  simplicity, 
without  even  a  change  of  feature;  merely  saying,  “  I’m  glad 
you  feel  so,  dear  Henrique!  I  hope  you  will  remember.” 

The  dinner-bell  put  an  end  to  the  interview. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

FORESHADOWINGS. 

Two  days  after  this  Alfred  St.  Clare  and  Augustine 
parted;  and  Eva,  who  had  been  stimulated,  by  the  society  of 
her  young  cousin,  to  exertions  beyond  her  strength,  began 
to  fail  rapidly.  St.  Clare  was  at  last  willing  to  call  in  medi¬ 
cal  advice,— a  thing  from  which  he  had  always  shrunk,  be¬ 
cause  it  was  the  admission  of  an  unwelcome  truth. 

But  for  a  day  or  two  Eva  was  so  unwell  as  to  be  confined 
to  the  house;  and  the  doctor  was  called. 

Marie  St.  Clare  had  taken  no  notice  of  the  child’s  grad¬ 
ually  decaying  health  and  strength,  because  she  was  com¬ 
pletely  absorbed  in  studying  out  two  or  three  new  forms  of 
disease  to  which  she  believed  she  herself  was  a  victim.  It 
was  the  first  principle  of  Marie’s  belief  that  nobody  ever  was 
or  could  be  so  great  a  sufferer  as  herself ;  and,  therefore,  she 
always  repelled  quite  indignantly  any  suggestion  that  any¬ 
one  around  her  could  he  sick.  She  was  always  sure,  in  such 
a  case,  that  it  was  nothing  hut  laziness  or  want  of  energy; 
and  that  if  they  had  had  the  suffering  she  had  they  would 
soon  know  the  difference. 

Miss  Ophelia  had  several  times  tried  to  awaken  her  ma¬ 
ternal  fears  about  Eva;  hut  to  no  avail. 

“I  don’t  see  as  anything  ails  the  child/’  she  would  say; 
“  she  rims  about  and  plays.” 

“  But  she  has  a  cough.” 

“  Cough!  you  don’t  need  to  tell  me  about  a  cough,,  I’ve 
always  been  subject  to  a  cough,  all  my  days.  When  i  was 


1AF22  AMOKG  THE  LOWLY. 


aw 

Eva’s  age  they  thought  I  was  in  a  consumption.  Night 
after  night  Mammy  used  to  sit  up  with  me.  Oh,  Eva’s  cough 
is  not  anything/* 

“  But  she  gets  weak,  and  is  short-breathed/* 

“  Law!  I’ve  had  that,  years  and  years;  it’s  only  a  nervous 
affection/* 

“  But  she  sweats  so,  nights! 99 

“  Well,  I  have,  these  ten  years,  Yery  often,  night  after 
night,  my  clothes  will  be  wringing  wet.  There  won’t  be  a 
dry  thread  in  my  night-clothes,  and  the  sheets  will  be  so  that 
Mammy  has  to  hang  them  up  to  dry!  Eva  doesn’t  sweat 
anything  like  that!  ” 

Miss  Ophelia  shut  her  mouth  for  a  season.  But  now  that 
Eva  was  fairly  and  visibly  prostrated  and  a  doctor  called, 
Marie,  all  on  a  sudden,  took  a  new  turn. 

She  knew  it,  she  said;  she  always  felt  it,  that  she  was  des¬ 
tined  to  be  the  most  miserable  of  mothers.  Here  she  was 
with  her  wretched  health  and  her  only  darling  child  going 
down  to  the  grave  before  her  eyes!  And  Marie  routed  up 
Mammy  nights,  and  rumpussed  and  scolded  with  more  en¬ 
ergy  than  ever  all  day,  on  the  strength  of  this  new  misery. 

“My  dear  Marie,  don’t  talk  so!”  said  St.  Clare.  “You 
ought  not  to  give  up  the  ease  so,  at  once.” 

“  You  have  not  a  mother’s  feelings,  St.  Clare.  You  never 
could  understand  me! — you  don’t  now,” 

“  But  don’t  talk  so,  as  if  it  were  a  gone  case!  ” 

“  I  can’t  take  it  as  indifferently  as  you  can,  St.  Clare.  If 
you  don’t  feel  when  your  only  child  is  in  this  alarming  state, 
I  do.  It’s  a  blow  too  much  for  me,  with  all  I  was  bearing 
before.” 

“It’s  true,”  said  St.  Clare,  “that  Eva  is  very  delicate, 
that  I  always  knew;  and  that  she  has  grown  so  rapidly  as  to 
exhaust  her  strength;  and  that  her  situation  is  critical.  But 
just  now  she  is  only  prostrated  by  the  heat  of  the  weather 
and  by  the  excitement  of  her  cousin’s  visit,  and  the  ex¬ 
ertions  she  made.  The  physician  says  there  is  room  for 
hope.” 

“  Well,  of  course,  if  you  can  look  on  the  bright  side,  pray 
do;  it’s  a  mercy  if  people  haven’t  sensitive  feelings  in  this 
world.  I  am  sure  I  wish  I  didn’t  feel  as  I  do;  it  only  makes 
me  completely  wretched!  I  wish  I  could  be  as  easy  as  the 
fest  of  you!” 

And  the  “  rest  of  them  ”  had  good  reason  to  breathe  the 


278  uwcle  tom’s  oabik  ;  OB, 

same  prayer,  for  Marie  paraded  her  new  misery  as  the  reason 
and  apology  for  all  sorts  of  inflictions  on  everyone  about 
her.  Every  word  that  was  spoken  by  anybody,  everything 
that  was  done  or  was  not  done  everywhere,  was  only  a  new 
proof  that  she  was  surrounded  by  Lard-hearted,  insensible 
beings  who  were  unmindful  of  her  peculiar  sorrows.  Poor 
Eva  heard  some  of  these  speeches;  and  nearly  cried  her  lit¬ 
tle  eyes  out  in  pity  for  her  mamma,  and  in  sorrow  that  she 
should  make  her  so  much  distress. 

In  a  week  or  two  there  was  a  great  improvement  of  symp¬ 
toms, — one  of  those  deceitful  lulls  by  which  her  inexorable 
disease  so  often  beguiles  the  anxious  heart,  even  on  the 
verge  of  the  grave.  Eva’s  step  was  again  in  the  garden, — 
in  the  balconies;  she  played  and  laughed  again,— and  her 
father,  in  a  transport,  declared  that  they  should  soon  have 
her  as  hearty  as  anybody.  Miss  Ophelia  and  the  physician 
alone  felt  no  encouragement  from  this  illusive  truce.  There 
was  one  other  heart,  too,  that  felt  the  same  certainty,  and 
that  was  the  little  heart  of  Eva.  What  is  it  that  sometimes 
speaks  in  the  soul  so  calmly,  so  clearly,  that  its  earthly 
time  is  short?  Is  it  the  secret  instinct  of  decaying  nature, 
or  the  soul’s  impulsive  throb,  as  immortality  draws  on?  Be 
it  what  it  may,  it  rested  in  the  heart  of  Eva,  a  calm,  sweet, 
prophetic  certainty  that  heaven  was  near;  calm  as  the  light 
of  sunset,  sweet  as  the  bright  stillness  of  autumn,  there  her 
little  heart  reposed,  only  troubled  by  sorrow  for  those  who 
loved  her  so  dearly. 

For  the  child,  though  nursed  so  tenderly,  and  though  life 
was  unfolding  before  her  with  every  brightness  that  love  and 
wealth  could  give,  had  no  regret  for  herself  in  dying. 

In  that  book  which  she  and  her  simple  old  friend  had  read 
so  much  together,  she  had  seen  and  taken  to  her  young  heart 
the  image  of  One  who  loved  the  little  child;  and,  as  she 
gazed  and  mused,  he  had  ceased  to  be  an  image  and  a  picture 
of  the  distant  past,  and  come  to  be  a  living,  all-surrounding 
reality.  His  love  enfolded  her  childish  heart  with  more 
than  mortal  tenderness;  and  it  was  to  Him,  she  said,  she 
was  going,  and  to  His  home. 

But  her  heart  yearned  with  sad  tenderness  for  all  that 
she  was  to  leave  behind.  Her  father  most,— for  Eva,  though 
she  never  distinctly  thought  so,  had  an  instinctive  perception 
that  she  was  more  in  his  heart  than  any  other.  She  loved 
her  mother  because  she  was  so  loving  a  creature,  and  all 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY, 


S7§ 

the  selfishness  that  she  had  seen  in  her  only  saddened  and 
perplexed  her;  for  she  had  a  chihTs  implicit  trust  that  her 
mother  could  not  do  wrong.  There  was  something  about 
her  that  Eva  never  could  make  out;  and  she  always  smoothed 
it  over  with  thinking  that,  after  all,  it  was  mamma,  and  she 
loved  her  very  dearly  indeed. 

She  felt,  too,  for  those  fond,  faithful  servants  to  whom 
she  was  as  daylight  and  sunshine.  Children  do  not  usually 
generalize;  but  Eva  was  an  uncommonly  mature  child,  and 
the  things  that  she  had  witnessed  of  the  evils  of  the  system 
under  which  they  were  living  had  fallen,  one  by  one,  into 
the  depths  of  her  thoughtful,  pondering  heart.  She  had 
vague  longings  to  do  something  for  them, — to  bless  and  save 
not  only  them,  but  all  in  their  condition,— longings  that  con¬ 
trasted  sadly  with  the  feebleness  of  her  little  frame. 

“  Uncle  Tom,”  she  said  one  day,  when  she  was  reading  to 
her  friend,  “  I  can  understand  why  J esus  wanted  to  die  for 
us.” 

“  Why,  Miss  Eva?” 

“  Because  I’ve  felt  so,  too. 

“  What  is  it,  Miss  Eva? — I  don’t  understand.” 

“  I  can’t  tell  you;  but  when  I  saw  those  poor  creatures  on 
the  boat,  you  know,  when  you  came  up  and  I, — some  had  lost 
their  mothers,  and  some  their  husbands,  and  some  mothers 
cried  for  their  little  children, — and  when  I  heard  about  poor 
Prue,  oh,  ^wasn’t  that  dreadful!— and  a  great  many  other 
times,  I’ve  felt  that  I  wmuld  be  glad  to  die,  if  my  dying  could 
stop  all  this  misery.  I  would  die  for  them,  Tom,  if  I  could,” 
said  the  child  earnestly,  laying  her  little  thin  hand  on  his. 

Tom  looked  at  the  child  with  awe;  and  when  she,  hearing 
her  father’s  voice,  glided  away,  he  wiped  his  eyes  many  times 
as  he  looked  after  her. 

“  It’s  jest  no  use  tryin’  to  keep  Miss  Eva  here,”  he  said  to 
Mammy,  whom  he  met  a  moment  after.  “  She’s  got  the 
Lord’s  mark  in  her  forehead.” 

“Ah,  yes,  yes,”  said  Mammy,  raising  her  hands;  “I’ve 
alters  said  so.  She  wasn’t  never  like  a  child  that’s  to  live, — - 
there  was  alters  something  deep  in  her  eyes.  I’ve  told  missis 
so,  many  the  time;  it’s  a-comin  true,— w^e  all  sees  it,— dear,, 
little,  blessed  lamb!” 

Eva  came  tripping  up  the  veranda  steps  to  her  father.  It 
was  late  in  the  afternoon,  and  the  rays  of  the  sun  formed 
kind  of  glory  behind  her  as  she  came  forward  in  her  white 


880 


tmCXJS  TOMTi  CABIN  1  OB. 


dress,  with  her  golden  hair  and  glowing  cheeks,  her  eyes 
unnaturally  bright,  with  the  slow  fever  that  burned  in  her 
veins. 

St.  Clare  had  called  her  to  show  a  statuette  that  he  had 
been  buying  for  her;  but  her  appearance,  as  she  came  on, 
impressed  him  suddenly  and  painfully.  There  is  a  kind  of 
beauty  so  intense,  yet  so  fragile,  that  we  cannot  hear  to  look 
at  it.  Her  father  folded  her  suddenly  in  his  arms,  and 
almost  forgot  what  he  was  going  to  tell  her. 

“Eva,  dear,  you  are  better  nowadays, — are  you  not?” 

“  Papa,”  said  Eva,  with  sudden  firmness,  “  Pve  had  things 
I  wanted  to  say  to  you  a  great  while.  I  want  to  say  them 
now,  before  I  get  weaker.” 

St.  Clare  trembled  as  Eva  seated  herself  in  his  lap.  She 
laid  her  head  on  his  bosom  and  said: 

“  IPs  all  no  use,  papa,  to  keep  it  to  myself  any  longer. 
The  time  is  coming  that  I  am  going  to  leave  you.  I  am  go¬ 
ing,  and  never  to  come  back!  ”  and  Eva  sobbed. 

“  Oh,  now,  my  dear  little  Eva!  ”  said  St.  Clare,  trembling 
as  he  spoke,  but  speaking  cheerfully,  “  you’ve  got  nervous 
and  low-spirited;  you  mustn’t  indulge  such  gloomy  thoughts. 
See  here,  I’ve  bought  a  statuette  for  you!  ” 

“  No,  papa,”  said  Eva,  putting  it  gently  away,  “  don’t  de¬ 
ceive  yourself!— I  am  not  any  better,  I  know  it  perfectly 
well, — and  I  am  going  before  long.  I  am  not  nervous, — I 
am  not  low:spirited.  If  it  were  not  for  you,  papa,  and  my 
friends,  I  should  be  perfectly  happy.  I  want  to  go,— I  long 
to  go!” 

“  Why,  dear  child,  what  has  made  your  poor  little  heart 
so  sad?  You  have  had  everything  to  make  you  happy,  that 
could  be  given  you.” 

“I  had  rather  be  in  heaven;  though,  only  for  my  friends’ 
sake,  I  would  be  willing  to  live.  There  are  a  great  many 
things  here  that  make  me  sad,  that  seem  dreadful  to  me;  I 
had  rather  he  there;  but  I  don’t  want  to  leave  you, — it  almost 
breaks  my  heart!.” 

“  What  makes  you  sad,  and  seems  dreadful,  Eva?  ” 

“  Oh,  things  that  are  done  and  done  all  the  time.  I  feel 
Bad  for  our  poor  people;  they  love  me  dearly,  and  they  are  all 
good  and  kind  to  me.  I  wish,  papa,  they  were  all  free” 

“Why,  Eva,  child,  don’t  you  think  they  are  well  enough 
toff  now?  ” 

V  u  Oh,  but,  papa,  if  anything  should  happen  to  you,  what 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY. 


281 


would  become  of  them?  There  are  very  few  men  like  you, 
papa.  Uncle  Alfred  isn’t  like  you,  and  mamma  isn’t;  and 
then,  think  of  poor  old  Prue’s  owners!  What  horrid  things 
people  do  and  can  do!  ”  and  Eva  shuddered. 

44  My  dear  child,  you  are  too  sensitive.  Pm  sorry  I  ever 
let  you  hear  such  stories.” 

“  Oh,  that’s  what  troubles  me,  papa.  You  want  me  to  live 
so  happy  and  never  to  have  any  pain,— never  suffer  anything, 
— not  even  hear  a  sad  story,  when  other  poor  creatures  have 
nothing  but  pain  and  sorrow  all  their  lives; — it  seems  selfish. 
I  ought  to  know  such  things,  I  ought  to  feel  about  them! 
Such  things  always  sunk  into  my  heart;  they  went  down  deep; 
I’ve  thought  and  thought  about  them.  Papa,  isn’t  there 
any  way  to  have  all  slaves  made  free?  ” 

“  That’s  a  difficult  question,  dearest.  There’s  no  doubt 
that  this  way  is  a  very  bad  one;  a  great  many  people  think 
so;  I  do  myself.  I  heartily  wish  that  there  were  not  a  slave 
in  the  land;  but,  then,  I  don’t  know  what  is  to  be  done  about 
it!” 

“  Papa  you  are  such  a  good  man,  and  so  noble,  and  kind, 
and  you  always  have  a  way  of  saying  things  that  are  so  pleas¬ 
ant,  couldn’t  you  go  all  round  and  try  to  persuade  people 
to  do  right  about  this?  When  I  am  dead,  papa,  then  you 
will  think  of  me  and  do  it  for  my  sake.  I  would  do  it  if  I 
could.” 

“  When  you  are  dead,  Eva!  ”  said  St.  Clare  passionately. 
“  Oh,  child,  don’t  talk  to  me  so!  You  are  all  I  have  on 
earth.” 

“  Poor  old  Prue’s  child  was  all  that  she  had,  and  yet  she 
had  to  hear  it  crying  and  she  couldn’t  help  it!  Papa,  these 
poor  creatures  love  their  children  as  much  as  you  do  me. 
Oh,  do  something  for  them!  There’s  poor  Mammy  loves 
her  children;  I’ve  seen  her  cry  when  she  talked  about  them. 
And  Tom  loves  his  children;  and  it’s  dreadful,  papa,  that 
such  things  are  happening  all  the  time!  ” 

“  There,  there,  darling,”  said  St.  Clare  soothingly;  “  only 
don’t  distress  yourself,  and  don’t  talk  of  dying,  and  I  will  do 
anything  you  wish.” 

“And  promise  me,  dear  father,  that  Tom  shall  have  his 
freedom  as  soon  as  — she  stopped,  and  said,  in  a  hesitating 
tone,— “  I  am  gone!  ” 

“Yes,  dear,  I  will  do  anything  in  the  world,— anything 
could  ask  me  to.” 


383  TOOLE  TOM?S  CABIN';  OB, 

“Dear  papa,”  said  the  child,  laying  her  burning  cheek 
against  his,  “  how  I  wish  we  could  go  together!  ” 

“Where,  dearest?”  said  St.  Clare. 

“  To  our  Saviours  home;  it's  so  sweet  and  peaceful  there, 
—it  is  all  so  loving  there!  ”  The  child  spoke  unconsciously, 
as  of  a  place  where  she  had  often  been.  “  Don’t  you  want  to 
go,  papa?”  she  said. 

St.  Clare  drew'  her  closer  to  him,  but  was  silent. 

“  You  will  come  to  me,”  said  the  child,  speaking  in  a  voice 
of  calm  certainty,  which  she  often  used  unconsciously. 

“  I  shall  come  after  you.  I  shall  not  forget  you.” 

The  shadows  of  the  solemn  evening  closed  around  them 
deeper  and  deeper,  as  St.  Clare  sat  silently  holding  the  little 
frail  form  to  his  bosom.  He  saw  no  more  the  deep  eyes,  but 
the  voice  came  over  him  as  a  spirit  voice,  and,  as  in  a  sort  of 
judgment  vision  his  whole  past  life  rose  in  a  moment  be¬ 
fore  his  eyes:  his  mother’s  prayers  and  hymns;  his  owrn  early 
yearnings  and  aspirings  for  good;  and,  between  them  and  this 
hour,  years  of  worldliness  and  skepticism,  and  what  man 
calls  respectable  living.  We  can  think  much,  very  much, 
in  a  moment.  St.  Clare  saw  and  felt  many  things,  but  spoke 
nothing;  and,  as  it  grewr  darker,  he  took  his  child  to  her 
bedroom;  and  when  she  wras  prepared  for  rest  he  sent  ayray 
the  attendants  and  rocked  her  in  his  arms,  and  sung  to  her 
till  she  was  asleep. 


CHAPTER  XXY. 

THE  LITTLE  EVANGELIST. 

It  was  Sunday  afternoon.  St.  Clare  was  stretched  on  a 
bamboo  lounge  in  the  veranda,  solacing  himself  with  a  cigar. 
Marie  lay  reclined  on  a  sofa,  opposite  the  window  opening 
on  the  veranda,  closely  secluded,  under  an  awning  of  trans¬ 
parent  gauze,  from  the  outrages  of  the  mosquitoes,  and  lan¬ 
guidly  holding  in  her  hand  an  elegantly  bound  prayer-book. 
She  was  holding  it  because  it  was  Sunday,  and  she  imagined 
she  had  been  reading  it, — though,  in  fact,  she  had  been  only 
taking  a  succession  of  short  naps  with  it  open  in  her  hand. 

Miss  Ophelia,  who,  after  some  rummaging,  had  hunted 
up  a  small  Methodist  meeting  within  riding  distance,  had 


LIFE  AMOHG  THE -LOWLY, 


SSi 


gone  out,  with  Torn  as  driver,  to  attend  it;  and  Eva  had  ac¬ 
companied  them. 

“  I  say,  Augustine,”  said  Maris,  after  dozing  a  while,  *  I 
must  send  to  the  city  after  my  old  Dr.  Posey;  Pm  sure  I’ve 
got  the  complaint  of  the  heart.” 

“  Weil,  why  need  you  send  for  him?  This  doctor  that  at¬ 
tends  Eva  seems  skillful.” 

“  I  would  not  trust  him  in  a  critical  case,”  said  Marie; 
“  and  I  think  I  may  say  mine  is  becoming  so!  Pve  been 
thinking  of  it  these  two  or  three  nights  past;  I  have  such 
distressing  pains  and  such  strange  feelings.” 

“  Oh,  Marie,  you  are  blue;  I  don’t  believe  it’s  heart  com¬ 
plaint.” 

“  I  dare  say  you  don’t,”  said  Marie;  “  I  was  prepared  to  ex¬ 
pect  that .  You  can  be  alarmed  enough  if  Eva  coughs,  or  has 
the  least  thing  the  matter  with  her;  but  you  never  think  of 
me.” 

“  If  it’s  particularly  agreeable  to  you  to  have  heart  disease, 
why,  I’ll  try  and  maintain  you  have  it,”  said  St.  Clare;  “  I 
didn’t  know  it  was.” 

“  Well,  I  only  hope  you  won’t  be  sorry  for  this,  when  it’s 
too  late,”  said  Marie;  “  but,  believe  it  or  not,  my  distress 
about  Eva,  and  the  exertions  I  have  made  with  that  dear 
child,  have  developed  what  I  have  long  suspected.” 

What  the  exertions  were  which  Marie  referred  to  it  would 
have  been  difficult  to  state.  St.  Clare  quietly  made  this  com¬ 
mentary  to  himself,  and  went  on  smoking,  like  a  hard¬ 
hearted  wretch  of  a  man  as  he  was,  till  a  carriage  drove  up 
before  the  veranda  and  Eva  and  Miss  Ophelia  alighted. 

Miss  Ophelia  marched  straight  to  her  own  chamber  to 
put  away  her  bonnet  and  shawl,  as  was  always  her  manner, 
before  she  spoke  a  word  on  any  subject;  while  Eva  came,  at 
St.  Clare’s  call,  and  was  sitting  on  his  knee  giving  him  an 
account  of  the  services  they  had  heard. 

They  soon  heard  loud  exclamations  from  Miss  Ophelia’s 
room,  which,  like  the  one  in  which  they  were  sitting,  opened 
on  to  the  veranda,  and  violent  reproof  addressed  to  some¬ 
body. 

“  What  new  witchcraft  has  Topsy  been  brewing?  ”  asked 
St.  Clare.  “  That  commotion  is  of  her  raising,  I’ll  be 
bound.” 

And  in  a  moment  after  Miss  Ophelia,  in  high  in  Agnation, 
came  dragging  the  culprit  along. 


W4  UNCLE  tom’s  cabin;  OB, 

“  Come  out  here,  now! ’’  she  said.  “  I  will  tell  your  mas« 

ter" 

“  What’s  the  case,  now?  ’’  asked  Augustine. 

“  The  case  is,  that  I  cannot  be  plagued  with  this  child  any 
longer!  It’s  past  all  bearing;  flesh  and  blood  cannot  endure 
it.  Here  I  locked  her  up*  and  gave  her  a  hymn  to  study;  and 
what  dofls  she  do  but  spy  out  where  I  put  my  key,  and  has 
gone  to  my  bureau  and  got  a  bonnet-trimming  and  cut  it  all 
to  pieces  to  make  dolls’  jackets!  I  never  saw  anything  like 
it  in  my  life!  ’’ 

“I  told  you,  cousin,"  said  Marie,  “that  you’d  find  out 
that  these  creatures  can’t  be  brought  up  without  severity. 
If  I  had  my  way,  now,’’  she  said,  looking  reproachfully  at 
St.  Clare,  “  I’d  send  that  child  out  and  have  her  thor¬ 
oughly  whipped;  I’d  have  her  whipped  till  she  couldn’t 
stand !  ’’ 

“  I  don’t  doubt  it,’’  said  St.  Clare.  “  Tell  me  of  the  lovely 
rule  of  woman!  I  never  saw  above  a  dozen  women  that 
wouldn’t  half  kill  a  horse  or  a  servant,  either,  if  they  had 
their  own  way  with  them!— -let  alone  a  man!  ’’ 

“  There  is  no  use  in  this  shilly-shally  way  of  yours,  St. 
Clare!  ’’  said  Marie.  “  Cousin  is  a  woman  of  sense,  and  she 
sees  it  now  as  plain  as  I  do.’’ 

Miss  Ophelia  had  just  the  capability  of  indignation  that 
belongs  to  the  thorough-paced  housekeeper,  and  this  had 
been  pretty  actively  roused  by  the  artifice  and  wastefulness 
of  the  child;  in  fact,  many  of  my  lady  readers  must  own  that 
they  should  have  felt  just  so  in  her  circumstances;  but 
Marie’s  words  wrent  beyond  her,  and  she  felt  less  heat. 

“  I  wouldn’t  have  the  child  treated  so  for  the  world,’’  she 
said;  “  but,  I  am  sure,  Augustine,  I  don’t  know  what  to  do. 
I’ve  taught  and  taught;  I’ve  talked  till  I’m  tired;  I’ve 
whipped  her;  I’ve  punished  her  in  every  way  I  can  think  of, 
and  still  she’s  just  what  she  was  at  first.’’ 

“  Come  here,  Tops,  you  monkey!  ’’  said  St.  Clare,  calling 
the  child  up  to  him. 

Topsy  came  up;  her  round,  hard  eyes  glittering  and  blink¬ 
ing  with  a  mixture  of  apprehensiveness  and  their  usual  odd 
drollery. 

“What  makes  you  behave  so?’’  said  St.  Clare,  who  could 
not  help  being  amused  with  the  child’s  expression. 

“  Spects  it’s  my  wicked  heart/’  said  Topsy  demurely; 
49  Miss  Feely  says  so.’’ 


HFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY. 


S8$ 

“  Don’t  you  see  how  much  Miss  Ophelia  has  done  for  you? 
She  says  she  has  done  everything  she  can  think  of.” 

“  Lor,  yes,  mas’r!  old  missis  used  to  say  so,  too.  She 
whipped  me  a  heap  harder,  and  used  to  pull  my  har,  and 
knock  my  head  agin  the  door;  but  it  didn’t  do  me  no  good! 
I  spects,  if  they’s  to  pull  every  spear  o’  har  out  o’  my  head, 
it  wouldn’t  do  no  good,  neither, — I’s  so  wicked!  Laws!  I’s 
nothin’  but  a  nigger,  noways!  ” 

“  W ell,  I  shall  have  to  give  her  up,”  said  Miss  Ophelia. 
“I  can’t  have  that  trouble  any  longer.” 

“  Well,  I’d  just  like  to  ask  one  question,”  said  St.  Clare. 

“  What  is  it?” 

“Why,  if  your  gospel  is  not  strong  enough  to  save  one 
heathen  child  that  you  can  have  at  home  here  all  to  your¬ 
self,  what’s  the  use  of  sending  one  or  two  poor  missionaries 
off  with  it  among  thousands  of  just  such  ?  I  suppose  this 
child  is  but  a  fair  sample  of  what  thousands  of  your  heathen 
are.” 

Miss  Ophelia  did  not  make  an  immediate  answer;  and 
Eva,  who  had  stood  a  silent  spectator  of  the  scene  thus  far, 
made  a  silent  sign  to  Topsy  to  follow  her.  There  was  a  little 
glass  room  at  the  corner  of  the  veranda,  which  St.  Clare  used 
as  a  sort  of  reading  room;  and  Eva  and  Topsy  disappeared 
into  this  place. 

“  What’s  Eva  going  about,  now?  ”  said  St.  Clare;  “  I  mean 
to  see.” 

And,  advancing  on  tiptoe,  he  lifted  up  a  curtain  that  cov¬ 
ered  the  glass  door  and  looked  in.  In  a  moment,  laying  his 
finger  on  his  lips,  he  made  a  silent  gesture  to  Miss  Ophelia  to 
come  and  look.  There  sat  the  two  children  on  the  floor, 
with  their  side  faces  toward  them.  Topsy,  with  her  usual  air 
of  careless  drollery  and  unconcern;  but,  opposite  to  her, 
Eva,  her  whole  face  fervent  with  feeling  and  tears  in  her 
large  eyes. 

“  What  does  make  you  so  bad,  Topsy!  Why  won’t  you  try 
and  be  good!  Don’t  you  love  anybody ,  Topsy?” 

“  Dunno  nothin’  ’bout  love;  I  loves  candy  and  sich,  that’s 
all,”  said  Topsy.  v  -# 

“  But  you  love  your  father  and  mother?  ” 

“Never  had  none,  ye  know.  I  telled  ye  that,  Miss  Eva.” 

“  Oh,  I  know,”  said  Eva  sadly;  “  but  hadn’t  you  any 
brother,  or  sister,  or  aunt,  or - ” 

“  No,  none  on  ’em, — never  had  nothing  nor  nobody/’ 


§86 


TTNCLE  TOMrS  CABIH ;  0B? 


“  But,  Topsy;  if  you’d  only  try  to  be  good,  you  might - 

“  Couldn’t  never  be  nothin’  but  a  nigger,  if  I  was  ever  so 
good,”  said  Topsy.  “  li  I  could  be  skinned,  and  come  white* 
I’d  try,  then.” 

“  But  people  can  love  you,  if  you  are  black,  Topsy.  Miss 
Ophelia  would  love  you  if  you  were  good.” 

Topsy  gave  the  short  blunt  laugh  that  was  her  common 
mode  of  expressing  incredulity. 

“  Don’t  you  think  so?  ”  said  Eva. 

“  No;  she  can’t  bar  me,  ’cause  I’m  a  nigger! — she’d’s  soon 
have  a  toad  touch  her!  There  can’t  nobody  love  niggers, 
and  niggers  can’t  do  nothin’!  I  don’t  care,”  said  Topsy,  be¬ 
ginning  to  whistle. 

“  Oh,  Topsy,  poor  child,  I  love  you!  ”  said  Eva,  with  a 
sudden  burst  of  feeling,  and  laying  her  little  thin  white  hand 
on  Topsy’s  shoulder;  “I  love  you  because  you  haven’t  had 
any  father,  or  mother,  or  friends;- — because  you’ve  been  a 
poor,  abused  child!  I  love  you,  and  I  want  you  to  be  good. 
I  am  very  unwell,  Topsy,  and  I  think  I  shan’t  live  a  great 
while;  and  it  really  grieves  me  to  have  you  be  so  naughty. 
I  wish  you  would  try  to  be  good,  for  my  sake;  it’s  only  a 
little  while  I  shall  be  with  you.” 

The  round,  keen  eyes  of  the  black  child  were  overcast  with 
tears; — large,  bright  drops  rolled  heavily  down,  one  by  one, 
and  fell  on  the  little  white  hand.  Yes,  in  that  moment,  a 
ray  of  real  belief,  a  ray  of  heavenly  love  had  penetrated  the 
darkness  of  her  heathen  soul!  She  laid  her  head  down  be¬ 
tween  her  knees,  and  wept  and  sobbed, — while  the  beautiful 
child,  bending  over  her,  looked  like  the  picture  of  some 
bright  angel  stooping  to  reclaim  a  sinner. 

“Poor  Topsy!”  said  Eva,  “  don’t  you  know  that  Jesus 
loves  all  alike?  He  is  just  as  willing  to  love  you  as  me.  He 
loves  you  just  as  I  do,— only  more,  because  he  is  better.  He 
will  help  you  to  be  good;  and  you  can  go  to  heaven  at  last, 
and  be  an  angel  forever,  just  as  much  as  if  you  were  white. 
Only  think  of  it,  Topsy! — you  can  be  one  of  those  spirits 
bright  Uncle  Tom  sings  about.” 

L,  “  Oh,  dear  Miss  Eva,  dear  Miss  Eva!  ”  said  the  child, 
€C  I  will  try,  I  will  try;  I  never  did  care  nothin’  about  it  be¬ 
fore.” 

St-.  Clare,  at  this  instant,  dropped  the  curtain.  “  It  puts 
me  in  mind  of  mother,”  he  said  to  Miss  Ophelia.  “  It  is  true 
iWhat  she  told  me:  if  we  want  to  give  sight  to  the  blind,  we 


LHTC2  AMONG  THIS  LOWLY.  28f 

must  be  willing  to  do  as  Christ  did,— call  them  to  us,  and 
put  our  hands  on  them  /’ 

“  I’ve  always  had  a  prejudice  against  negroes/*  said  Miss 
Ophelia,  “  and  it’s  a  far;,  I  never  could  bear  to  have  that 
child  touch  me;  but  I  didn’t  think  she  knew  it.” 

“  Trust  any  child  to  find  that  out,”  said  St.  Clare;  “  there's 
no  keeping  it  from  them.  But  I  believe  that  all  the  try¬ 
ing  in  the  world  to  benefit  a  child,  and  all  the  substantial 
favors  you  can  do  them,  will  never  excite  one  emotion  of 
gratitude,  while  that  feeling  of  repugnance  remains  in  the 
heart; — it’s  a  queer  kind  of  a  fact, — but  so  it  is.” 

“  I  don’t  know  how  I  can  help  it,”  said  Miss  Ophelia; 
“  they  are  disagreeable  to  me,— this  child  in  particular,— 
how  can  I  help  feeling  so?” 

“  Eva  does,  it  seems.” 

“  Well,  she’s  so  loving!  After  all,  though,  she’s  no  more 
than  Christ-like,”  said  Miss  Ophelia;  “  I  wish  I  were  like 
her.  She  might  teach  me  a  lesson.” 

“  It  wouldn’t  be  the  first  time  a  little  child  had  been  used 
to  instruct  an  old  disciple,  if  it  were  so,”  said  St.  Clare. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

DEATH. 

“  Weep  not  for  those  whom  the  veil  of  the  tomb, 

In  life’s  early  morning,  hath  hid  from  our  eyes.” 

Eva’s  bedroom  was  a  spacious  apartment,  which,  like  all 
the  other  rooms  in  the  house,  opened  on  to  the  broad  veranda. 
The  room  communicated  on  one  side  with  her  father  and 
mother’s  apartment;  on  the  other  with  that  appropriated  to 
Miss  Ophelia.  St.  Clare  had  gratified  his  own  eye  and  taste 
in  furnishing  this  room  in  a  style  that  had  a  peculiar  keeping 
with  the  character  of  her  for  whom  it  was  intended.  The 
windows  were  hung  with  curtains  of  rose-colored  and  white 
muslin;  the  floor  was  spread  with  a  matting  which  had  been 
ordered  in  Paris,  to  a  pattern  of  his  own  device,  having  round 
it  a  border  of  rosebuds  and  leaves,  and  a  center-piece  with 
full-blown  roses.  The  bedstead,  chairs,  and  loungefe  were 
of  bamboo,  wrought  in  peculiarly  graceful  and  fanciful  pat¬ 
terns.  Over  the  head  of  the  bed  was  an  alabaster  bracket, 
on  which  a  beautiful  sculptured  angel  stood,  with  drooping 


$88  UNCLE  TOM*8  CABIN  \  OH, 

wings,  holding  out  a  crown  of  myrtle  leaves.  From  this 
depended,  over  the  bed,  light  curtains  of  rose-colored  gauze, 
striped  with  silver,  supplying  that  protection  from  mos¬ 
quitoes  which  is  an  indispensable  addition  to  all  sleeping  ac¬ 
commodation  in  that  climate.  The  graceful  bamboo  lounges 
were  amply  supplied  with  cushions  of  rose-colcred  damask, 
while  over  them,  depending  from  the  hands  of  sculptured 
figures,  were  gauze  curtains  similar  to  those  of  the  bed.  A 
light  fanciful  bamboo  table  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  room, 
where  a  Parian  vase  wrought  in  the  shape  of  a  white  lily, 
with  its  buds,  stood,  ever  filled  with  flowers.  On  this  table 
lay  Eva’s  books  and  little  trinkets,  with  an  elegantly  wrought 
alabaster  writing-stand,  which  her  father  had  supplied  to  her 
when  he  saw  her  trying  to  improve  herself  in  writing.  There 
was  a  fireplace  in  the  room,  and  on  the  marble  mantel  above 
stood  a  beautifully  wrought  statuette  of  Jesus  receiving 
little  children,  and  on  either  side  marble  vases,  for  which  it 
was  Tom’s  pride  and  delight  to  offer  bouquets  every  morn¬ 
ing.  Two  or  three  exquisite  paintings  of  children,  in  various 
attitudes,  embellished  the  wall.  In  short,  the  eye  could  turn 
nowhere  without  meeting  images  of  childhood,  of  beauty, 
and  of  peace.  Those  little  eyes  never  opened  in  the  morning 
light  without  falling  on  something  which  suggested  to  the 
heart  soothing  and  beautiful  thoughts. 

The  deceitful  strength  which  had  buoyed  Eva  up  for  a 
little  while  was  fast  passing  away;  seldom  and  more  seldom 
her  light  footstep  was  heard  in  the  veranda,  and  oftener  and 
oftener  she  was  found  reclined  on  a  little  lounge  by  the  open 
window,  her  large,  deep  eyes  fixed  on  the  rising  and  falling 
waters  of  the  lake. 

It  was  toward  the  middle  of  the  afternoon,  as  she  was  so 
reclining, — her  Bible  half  open,  her  little  transparent  fingers 
lying  listlessly  between  the  leaves, — suddenly  she  heard  her 
mother’s  voice,  in  sharp  tones,  in  the  veranda. 

“What  now,  you  baggage! — what  new  piece  of  mischief! 
You’ve  been  picking  the  flowers,  hey?  ”  and  Eva  heard  the 
sound  of  a  smart  slap. 

“Law,  missis! — they’s  for  Miss  Eva,”  she  heard  a  voice 
say,  which  she  knew  belonged  to  Topsy. 

“Miss  Eva!  A  pretty  excuse!— you  suppose  she  wants 
your  flowers,  you  good-for-nothing  nigger!  Get  along  off 
with  you!  ” 

In  a  moment  Eva  was  off  her  lounge,  and  in  the  veranda. 


UFE  AMONG-  THE  LOWLY.  -M9 

“  Oh,  don’t,  mother!  I  should  like  the  flowers,  do  gire 
them  to  me;  I  want  them!  ” 

“  Why,  Eva,  your  room  is  full  now.” 

“  I  can’t  have  too  many,”  said  Eva.  “  Topsv,  do  bring 
them  here.” 

Topsy,  who  had  stood  sullenly,  holding  down  her  head, 
now  came  up  and  offered  her  flowers.  She  ’did  it  with  a  look 
of  hesitation  and  bashfulness  quite  unlike  the  eldrich  bold¬ 
ness  and  brightness  which  was  usual  with  her. 

“It’s  a  beautiful  bouquet!”  said  Eva,  looking  at  it. 

It  was  a  rather  singular  one,— a  brilliant  scarlet  geranium, 
and  one  single  white  japonica,  with  its  glossy  leaves.  It  was 
tied  up  with  an  evident  eye  to  the  contrast  of  color,  and 
the  arrangement  of  every  leaf  had  been  carefully  studied. 
Topsy  looked  pleased,  as  Eva  said, — “  Topsy,  you  arrange 
flowers  very  prettily.  Here,”  she  said,  “  is  this  vase  I  haven’t 
any  flowers  for.  I  wish  you’d  arrange  something  every  day 
for  it.” 

“Well,  that’s  odd!  ”  said  Marie.  “What  in  the  world  do 
you  want  that  for?  ” 

“  Never  mind,  mamma;  you’d  as  lief  as  not  Topsy  should 
do  it,— had  you  not?” 

“  Of  course,  anything  you  please,  dear!  Topsy,  you  hear 
your  young  mistress; — see  that  you  mind.” 

Topsy  made  a  short  courtesy,  and  looked  down;  and  as  she 
turned  away  Eva  saw  a  tear  roll  down  her  dark  cheek. 

“  You  see,  mamma,  I  knew  poor  Topsy  wanted  to  do  some¬ 
thing  for  me,”  said  Eva  to  her  mother. 

“  Oh,  nonsense!  it’s  only  because  she  likes  to  do  mischief. 
She  knows  she  mustn’t  pick  flowers, — so  she  does  it,  that’s 
all  there  is  to  it.  But  if  you  fancy  to  have  her  pluck  them, 
so  be  it.” 

“  Mamma,  I  think  Topsy  is  different  from  what  she  used 
to  be;  she’s  trying  to  be  a  good  girl.” 

“  She’ll  have  to  try  a  good  while  before  she  gets  to  be 
good,”  said  Marie,  with  a  careless  laugh. 

“  Well,  you  know,  mamma,  poor  Topsy!  everything  has 
always  been  against  her.” 

“  Not  since  she’s  been  here,  I’m  sure.  If  she  hasn’t  been 
talked  to,  and  preached  to,  and  every  earthly  thing  done  that 
anybody  could  do;- — and  she*s  just  so  ugly,  and  always  will  be; 
you  can’t  make  anything  of  the  creatiirel  ” 

u  But,  mamma,  it’s  so  different  to  be  brought  up  as  I’ve 


mo 


uncle  tom’s  cabin;  OB* 

been,  with  so  many  friends,  and  so  many  things  to  make  me 
good  and  happy;  and  to  be  brought  up  as  she's  been,  all  the 
time,  till  she  came  here!  " 

“  Most  likely,"  said  Marie,  yawning,- — “  dear  me,  how  hot 
it  is!" 

“  Mamma,  you  believe,  don't  you,  that  Topsy  could  be¬ 
come  an  angel,  as  well  as  any  of  us,  if  she  were  a  Christian?  * 

“  Topsy!  what  a  ridiculous  idea!  Nobody  but  you  would 
ever  think  of  it.  I  suppose  she  could,  though." 

“But,  mamma,  isn't  God  her  father,  as  much  as  ours? 
Isn't  Jesus  her  Saviour?" 

“  W ell,  that  may  be.  I  suppose  God  made  everybody," 
said  Marie.  “Where  is  my  smelling-bottle?" 

“  It's  such  a  pity,-— oh!  such  a  pity!  "  said  Eva,  looking  out 
on  the  distant  lake,  and  speaking  half  to  herself. 

“What's  a  pity?"  said  Marie. 

“  Why,  that  anyone,  who  could  be  a  bright  angel,  and 
live  with  angels,  should  go  all  down,  down,  down,  and  nobody 
help  them!  Oh,  dear!  " 

“Well,  we  can't  help  it;  it's  no  use  worrying,  Eva!  I 
don't  know  what's  to  be  done;  we  ought  to  be  thankful  for 
our  own  advantages." 

“  I  hardly  can  be,"  said  Eva,  “  I'm  so  sorry  to  think  of 
poor  folks  that  haven't  any." 

“  That's  odd  enough,"  said  Marie;— “  I'm  sure  my  religion 
makes  me  thankful  for  my  advantages." 

“Mamma,"  said  Eva,  “I  want  to  have  some  of  my  hair 
cut  off,— a  good  deal  of  it." 

“What  for?"  said  Marie. 

“  Mamma,  I  want  to  give  some  away  to  my  friends,  while 
I  am  able  to  give  it  to  them  myself.  Won't  you  ask  aunty 
to  come  and  cut  it  for  me?  " 

Marie  raised  her  voice,  and  called  Miss  Ophelia  from  the 
other  room. 

The  child  half  rose  from  her  pillow  as  she  came  in,  and, 
shaking  down  her  long,  golden  brown  curls,  said  rather  play¬ 
fully,  “  Come,  aunty,  shear  the  sheep!  " 

“  What's  that?  "  said  St.  Clare,  who  had  just  then  entered 
with  some  fruit  he  had  been  out  to  get  for  her. 

“  Papa,  I  just  want  aunty  to  cut  off  some  of  my  hair; — 
Ihere's  too  much  of  it,  and  it  makes  my  head  hot.  Besides^ 
I  want  to  give  some  of  it  away." 

,  Anh&lia  came  with  her  scissors 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY.  $91 

m  Take  care, — don’t  spoil  the  looks  of  it!  ”  said  her  father; 
*cut  underneath,  where  it  won’t  show,  Eva’s  curls  are  ray 
pride.” 

“  Oh,  papa!  ”  said  Eva  sadly, 

“Yes,  and  I  want  them  kept  handsome  against  the  time 
I  take  you  up  to  your  uncle’s  plantation,  to  see  Cousin  Hen- 
rique,”  said  St.  Clare,  in  a  gay  tone. 

“X  shall  never  go  there,  papa; — I  am  going  to  a  better 
country.  Oh,  do  believe  me!  Don’t  you  see,  papa,  that  I 
get  weaker  every  day?  ” 

“  Why  do  you  insist  that  I  shall  believe  such  a  cruel  thing, 
Eva?”  said  her  father. 

“  Only  because  it  is  true ,  papa;  and  if  you  will  believe  it 
now,  perhaps  you  will  get  to  feel  about  it  as  I  do,” 

St.  Clare  closed  his  lips,  and  stood  gloomily  eying  the 
long,  beautiful  curls,  which,  as  they  were  separated  from 
the  child’s  head,  were  laid  one  by  one  in  her  lap.  She  raised 
them  up,  looked  earnestly  at  them,  twined  them  around  her 
thin  fingers,  and  looked  from  time  to  time  anxiously  at  her 
father. 

“ It’s  just  what  Fve  been  foreboding,”  said  Marie;  “it’s 
just  what  has  been  preying  on  my  health  from  day  to  day, 
bringing  me  downward  to  the  grave,  though  nobody  regards 
it.  I  have  seen  this  long.  St.  Clare,  you  will  see  after  a 
while  that  I  was  right.” 

“Which  will  afford  you  great  consolation,  no  doubt!” 
said  St.  Clare,  in  a  dry,  bitter  tone. 

Marie  lay  back  on  a  lounge,  and  covered  her  face  with  her 
cambric  handkerchief. 

Eva’s  clear  blue  eye  looked  earnestly  from  one  to  the 
other.  It  was  the  calm,  comprehending  gaze  of  a  soul 
half -loosed  from  its  earthly  bonds;  it  was  evident  she  saw, 
felt,  and  appreciated  the  difference  between  the  two. 

She  beckoned  with  her  hand  to  her  father.  He  came, 
and  sat  down  by  her. 

“  Papa,  my  strength  fades  away  every  day,  and  I  know  I 
must  go.  There  are  some  things  I  want  to  say  and  do, — 
that  I  ought  to  do;  and  you  are  so  unwilling  to  have  me 
speak  a  word  on  the  subject.  But  it  must  come;  there’s  no 
putting  it  off.  Do  be  willing  I  should  speak  now!  ” 

“  My  child,  I  am  willing!  ”  said  St.  Clare,  covering  his 
eyes  with  one  hand,  and  holding  Eva’s  hand  with  the 


S99  xtnclh:  tom’s  CABIN  ;  ©Bf 

“  Then  i  want  to  see  all  our  people  together.  I  have  some 
things  I  must  say  to  them/’  said  Eva. 

“  Well!”  said  St.  Clare,  in  a  tone  of  dry  endurance. 

Miss  Ophelia  dispatched  a  messenger,  and  soon  the  whole 
of  the  servants  were  convened  in  the  room. 

Eva  lay  back  on  her  pillows;  her  hair  hanging  loosely 
about  her  face,  her  crimson  cheeks  contrasting  painfully  with 
the  intense  whiteness  of  her  complexion  and  the  thin  contour 
of  her  limbs  and  features,  and  her  large,  soul-like  eyes  fixed 
earnestly  on  everyone. 

The  servants  were  struck  with  a  sudden  emotion.  The 
spiritual  face,  the  long  locks  of  hair  cut  off  and  lying  by 
her,  her  father’s  averted  face,  and  Marie’s  sobs,  struck  at 
once  upon  the  feelings  of  a  sensitive  and  impressible  race; 
and  as  they  came  in  they  looked  one  on  another,  sighed,  and 
shook  their  heads.  There  was  a  deep  silence,  like  that  of  a 
funeral. 

Eva  raised  herself,  and  looked  long  and  earnestly  round 
at  everyone.  All  looked  sad  and  apprehensive.  Many  of 
the  women  hid  their  faces  in  their  aprons. 

“  I  sent  for  you  all,  my  dear  friends,”  said  Eva,  “  because 
I  love  you.  I  love  you  all;  and  I  have  something  to  say  to 
you,  which  I  want  you  always  to  remember.  .  .  I  am  go¬ 
ing  to  leave  you.  In  a  few  more  weeks  you  will  see  me  no 
more— - ” 

Here  the  child  was  interrupted  by  bursts  of  groans,  sobs, 
and  lamentations,  which  broke  from  all  present,  and  in  which 
her  slender  voice  was  lost  entirely.  She  waited  a  moment, 
and  then  speaking  in  a  tone  that  checked  the  sobs  of  all,  she 
said: 

“  If  you  love  me  you  must  not  interrupt  me  so.  Listen  to 
what  I  say.  I  want  to  speak  to  you  about  your  souls.  .  . 
Many  of  you,  I  am  afraid,  are  very  careless.  You  are  think¬ 
ing  only  about  this  world.  I  want  you  to  remember  that 
there  is  a  beautiful  world  where  J esus  is.  I  am  going  there, 
and  you  can  go  there.  It  is  for  you,  as  much  as  me.  But, 
if  you  want  to  go  there,  you  must  not  lead  idle,  careless, 
thoughtless  lives.  You  must  be  Christians.  You  must  re¬ 
member  that  each  one  of  you  can  become  angels,  and  be 
angels  forever.  .  .  If  you  want  to  be  Christians,  Jesus  will 
help  you.  You  must  pray  to  him;  you  must  read — — ” 

The  child  checked  herself,  looked  piteously  at  them,  and 
sorrowfully: 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY. 


“  Oh,  dear!  you  can’t  read,— poor  souls!  55  and  she  hid  her 
face  in  the  pillow  and  sobbed,  while  many  a  smothered  sob 
from  those  she  was  addressing,  who  were  kneeling  on  the 

floor,  aroused  her. 

“  Never  mind/5  she  said,  raising  her  face,  and  smiling 
brightly  through  her  tears,  “  I  have  prayed  for  you;  and  I 
know  Jesus  will  help  you,  even  if  you  can’t  read.  Try  all 
to  do  the  best  you  can;  pray  every  day;  ask  him  to  help  you, 
and  get  the  Bible  read  to  you  whenever  you  can;  and  I  think 
I  shall  see  you  all  in  heaven/5 

"Amen/5  was  the  murmured  response  from  the  lips  of 
Tom  and  Mammy,  and  some  of  the  older  ones,  who  be¬ 
longed  to  the  Methodist  Church.  The  younger  and  more 
thoughtless  ones,  for  the  time  completely  overcome,  were 
sobbing,  with  their  heads  bowed  upon  their  knees. 

“  I  know/5  said  Eva,  “  you  all  love  me.55 

“Yes;  oh,  yes!  indeed  we  do!  Lord  bless  her! 55  was  the 
involuntary  answer  of  all. 

“  Yes,  1  know  you  do!  There  isn’t  one  of  you  that  hasn’t 
always  been  very  kind  to  me;  and  I  want  to  give  you  some¬ 
thing  that,  when  you  look  at,  you  shall  always  remember 
me.  I  am  going  to  give  all  of  you  a  curl  of  my  hair;  and, 
when  you  look  at  it,  think  that  I  loved  you,  and  am  gone 
to  heaven,  and  that  I  want  to  see  you  all  there.55 

It  is  impossible  to  describe  the  scene,  as  with  tears  and 
sobs,  they  gathered  round  the  little  creature,  and  took  from 
her  hands  what  seemed  to  them  a  last  mark  of  her  love. 
They  fell  on  their  knees;  they  sobbed,  and  prayed,  and 
kissed  the  hem  of  her  garment;  and  the  elder  ones  poured 
forth  words  of  endearment,  mingled  in  prayers  and  bless¬ 
ings,  after  the  manner  of  their  susceptible  race. 

As  each  one  took  their  gift  Miss  Ophelia,  who  was 
apprehensive  for  the  effect  of  all  this  excitement  on  her 
little  patient,  signed  to  each  one  to  pass  out  of  the  apart¬ 
ment. 

At  last  all  were  gone  but  Tom  and  Mammy. 

“  Here,  Uncle  Tom/5  said  Eva,  “is  a  beautiful  one  for 
you.  Oh,  I  am  so  happy.  Uncle  Tom,  to  think  I  shall  see 
you  in  heaven,— for  I’m  sure  I  shall;  and  Mammy,— dear, 
good,  kind  Mammy! 55  she  said,  fondly  throwing  her  arini 
round  her  old  nurse, — “  I  know  you5ll  be  there,  too/5 

“  Oh,  Miss  Eva,  don’t  see  how  I  can  live  without  ye,  no¬ 
how!  55  said  the  faithful  creature.  “  ’Pears  like  it’s  just  t&k~ 


294 


VWChB  tom’s  cabih  ;  0% 

ing  everything  off  the  place  to  oncet!  ”  and  Mammy  gave  way 
to  a  passion  of  grief. 

Miss  Ophelia  pushed  her  and  Tom  gently  from  the  apart¬ 
ment;  and  thought  they  were  all  gone;  but,  as  she  turned, 
Topsy  was  standing  there. 

“  Where  did  you  start  up  from?”  she  said  suddenly. 

“  I  was  here,”  said  Topsy,  wiping  the  tears  from  her  eyes. 
“  Oh,  Miss  Eva,  I’ve  been  a  bad  girl;  but  won’t  you  give  me 
one,  too?” 

“  Yes,  poor  Topsy!  to  be  sure  I  will.  There — every  time 
you  look  at  that,  think  that  I  love  you,  and  wanted  you  to  be 
a  good  girl!  ” 

“  Oh,  Miss  Eva,  I  is  trying  ”  said  Topsy  earnestly;  “but. 
Lor,  it’s  so  hard  to  be  good!  Tears  like  I  an’t  used  to  it, 
noways!  ” 

“Jesus  knows  it,  Topsy;  he  is  sorry  for  you;  he  will  help 
you.” 

Topsy  with  her  eyes  hid  in  her  apron  was  silently  passed 
from  the  apartment  by  Miss  Ophelia;  but  as  she  went  she 
hid  the  precious  curl  in  her  bosom. 

Ail  being  gone,  Miss  Ophelia  shut  the  door.  That  worthy 
lady  had  wiped  away  many  tears  of  her  own  during  the 
scene;  but  concern  for  the  consequence  of  such  an  excite¬ 
ment  to  her  young  charge  was  uppermost  in  her  mind. 

St.  Clare  had  been  sitting,  during  the  whole  time,  with  his 
hand  shading  his  eyes,  in  the  same  attitude.  When  they  were 
all  gone,  he  sat  so  still. 

“  Papa!  ”  said  Eva,  gently  laying  her  hand  on  his. 

He  gave  a  sudden  start  and  shiver;  but  made  no  answer. 

“  Dear  papa!  ”  said  Eva. 

“1  cannot /”  said  St.  Clare,  rising,  “  I  cannot  have  it  so! 
The  Almighty  hath  dealt  very  Utterly  with  rue!  ”  and  St. 
Cl  .are  pronounced  these  words  with  a  bitter  emphasis,  indeed. 

“  Augustine,  has  not  God  a  right  to  do  what  he  will  with 
his  own?”  said  Miss  Ophelia. 

“  Perhaps  so;  but  that  doesn’t  make  it  any  easier  to  bear,” 
said  he,  with  a  dry,  hard,  tearless  manner,  as  he  turned 
away 

“  Papa,  you  break  my  heart!  ”  said  Eva,  rising  and  throw¬ 
ing  herself  into  his  arms;  “  you  must  not  feel  so!  ”  and  the 
child  sobbed  and  wept  with  a  violence  which  alarmed  them 
all  and  turned  her  father’s  thoughts  at  once  to  another 
channel 


LIFJ&  AMONG  THE  LOWLY, 


295 


“  There,  Eva, — there,  dearest!  Hush!  hush!  1  was  wrong; 
3  was  wicked.  I  will  feel  anyway,  do  any  way,  — only  don’t 
distress  yourself;  don’t  sob  so.  I  will  be  resigned;  I  was 
wicked  to  speak  as  I  did.” 

Eva  soon  lay  like  a  wearied  dove  in  her  father’s  arms;  and 
he,  bending  over  her,  soothed  her  by  every  tender  word  he 
could  think  of. 

Marie  rose  and  threw  herself  out  of  the  apartment  into 
her  own,  when  she  fell  into  violent  hysterics. 

“  You  didn’t  give  me  a  curl,  Eva,”  said  her  father,  smiling 
sadly. 

"  They  are  all  yours,  papa,”  said  she,  smiling, — “  yours 
and  mamma’s;  and  you  must  give  dear  aunty  as  many  as 
she  wants.  I  only  gave  them  to  our  poor  people  myself, 
because  you  know,  papa,  they  might  be  forgotten  when  I  am 
gone,  and  because  I  hoped  it  might  help  them  remember.  .  . 
You  are  a  Christian,  are  you  not,  papa?  ”  said  Eva  doubt¬ 
fully.  - 

"  Why  do  you  ask  me  ?  ” 

“I  don’t  know.  You  are  so  good,  I  don’t  see  how  you 
can  help  it.” 

"What  is  being  a  Christian,  Eva?” 

“  Loving  Christ  most  of  all,”  said  Eva. 

“  Do  you,  Eva?  ” 

"  Certainly,  I  do.” 

"You  never  saw  him,”  said  St.  Clare. 

“  That  makes  no  difference,”  said  Eva.  “  I  believe  him, 
and  in  a  few  days  I  shall  see  him;  ”  and  the  young  face  grew 
fervent,  radiant  with  joy. 

St.  Clare  said  no  more.  It  was  a  feeling  which  he  had  seen 
before  in  his  mother;  but  no  chord  within  vibrated  to  it. 

Eva,  after  this,  declined  rapidly;  there  Was  no  more  any 
doubt  of  the  event;  the  fondest  hope  could  not  be  blinded. 
Her  beautiful  room  was  avowedly  a  sickroom,  and  Miss 
Ophelia  day  and  night  performed  the  duties  of  a  nurse,— 
and  never  did  her  friends  appreciate  her  value  more  than  in 
that  capacity.  With  so  well-trained  a  hand  and  eye,  such 
perfect  adroitness  and  practice  in  every  art  which  could  pro¬ 
mote  neatness  and  comfort,  and  keep  out  of  sight  every  dis¬ 
agreeable  incident  of  sickness, — with  such  a  perfect  sense 
of  time,  such  a  clear,  untroubled  head,  such  exact  accuracy 
in  remembering  every  prescription  and  direction  of  the  doc¬ 
tor’s, — si-  was  everything  to  him.  They  who  had  Shrugged 


296 


UNCLE  TOM’S  CABIN  ;  OB, 

their  shoulders  at  her  little  peculiarities  and  setnesses,  m 
unlike  the  careless  freedom  of  Southern  manners,  acknowl¬ 
edged  that  now  she  was  the  exact  person  that  was  wanted. 

Uncle  Tom  was  much  in  Eva’s  room.  The  child  suffered 
much  from  nervous  restlessness,  and  it  was  a  relief  to  her 
to  be  carried;  and  it  was  Tom’s  greatest  delight  to  carry  her 
little  frail  form  in  his  arms,  resting  on  a  pillow,  now  up  and 
down  her  room,  now  out  into  the  veranda;  and  when  the 
fresh  sea-breees  blew  from  the  lake,— and  the  child  felt 
freshest  in  the  morning, — he  would  sometimes  walk  with 
her  under  the  orange  trees  in  the  garden,  or,  sitting  down  in 
some  of  their  old  seats,  to  sing  to  her  their  favorite  old 
hymns. 

Her  father  often  did  the  same  thing;  but  his  frame  was 
slighter,  and  when  he  was  weary  Eva  would  say  to  him: 

“  Oh,  papa,  let  Tom  take  me.  Poor  fellow!  it  pleases  him, 
and  you  know  it’s  all  he  can  do  now,  and  he  wants  to  do 
something!  ” 

“  So  do  I,  Eva,”  said  her  father. 

“  Well,  papa,  you  can  do  everything,  and  are  everything  to 
me.  You  read  to  me, — you  sit  up  nights, — and  Tom  lias 
only  this  one  thing,  and  his  singing;  and  I  know,  too,  lie 
does  it  easier  than  you  can.  He  carries  me  so  strong!  ” 

The  desire  to  do  something  was  not  confined  to  Tom. 
Every  servant  in  the  establishment  showed  the  same  feeling, 
and  in  their  way  did  what  they  could. 

Poor  Mammy’s  heart  yearned  toward  her  darling;  but  she 
found  no  opportunity,  night  or  day,  as  Marie  declared  that 
the  state  of  her  mind  was  such,  it  was  impossible  for  her 
to  rest;  and  of  course  it  was  against  her  principles  to  let  any¬ 
one  else  rest.  Twenty  times  in  a  night  Mammy  would  be 
roused  to  rub  her  feet,  to  bathe  her  head,  to  find  her  pocket 
handkerchief,  to  see  what  the  noise  was  in  Eva’s  room,  to 
let  down  a  curtain  because  it  was  too  light,  or  to  put  it  up  be¬ 
cause  it  was  too  dark;  and  in  the  day-time  when  she  longed 
to  have  some  share  in  the  nursing  of  her  pet,  Marie  seemed 
unusually  ingenious  in  keeping  her  busy  anywhere  and  every¬ 
where  all  over  the  house,  or  about  her  own  person;  so  that 
stolen  interviews  and  momentary  glimpses  were  all  she  could 
obtain. 

“  I  feel  it  my  duty  to  be  particularly  careful  of  myself, 
now,”  she  would  s&y,  “  feeble  as  I  am,  and  with  the  whole 
care  and  nursing  of  that  dear  child  upon  me.” 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY,  SOT 

“  Indeed,  mv  dear,”  said  St.  Clare,  “  I  thought  our  cousin 
relieved  you  of  that.” 

4*  You  talk  like  a  man,  St.  Clare,-— just  as  if  a  mother  could 
he  relieved  of  the  care  ef  a  child  in  that  state;  but,  then, 
ii/s  all  alike, — no  one  ever  knows  what  I  feel!  I  can’t  throw 
things  off,  as  you  do.” 

St.  Clare  smiled.  You  must  excuse  him,  he  couldn’t  l^lp  it, 
—for  St.  Clare  could  smile  yet.  For  so  bright  and  placid  was 
the  farewell  voyage  of  the  little  spirit,— by  such  sweet  and 
fragrant  breezes  was  the  small  bark  borne  toward  the  heavenly 
shores,  that  it  was  impossible  to  realize  that  it  was  death  that 
was  approaching.  The  child  felt  no  pain, — only  a  tranquil, 
soft  weakness,  daily  and  almost  insensibly  increasing;  and 
she  was  so  beautiful,  so  loving,  so  trustful,  so  happy,  that 
one  could  not  resist  the  soothing  influence  of  that  air  of  in¬ 
nocence  and  peace  which  seemed  to  breathe  around  her.  St. 
Clare  found  a  strange  calm  coming  over  him.  It  was  not 
hope, — that  was  impossible;  it  was  not  resignation;  it  was 
only  a  calm  resting  in  the  present,  which  seemed  so  beauti¬ 
ful  that  he  wished  to  think  of  no  future.  It  was  like  that 
hush  of  spirit  which  we  feel,  amid  the  bright,  mild  woods 
of  autumn,  when  the  bright  hectic  flush  is  on  the  trees,  and 
the  last  lingering  flowers  by  the  brook;  and  we  joy  in  it  all 
the  more,  because  we  know  that  soon  it  will  all  pass  away. 

The  friend  who  knew  most  of  Eva’s  own  imaginings  and 
foreshadowings  was  her  faithful  bearer,  Tom.  To  him  she 
said  what  she  would  not  disturb  her  father  by  saying.  To  him 
she  imparted  those  mysterious  intimations  which  the  soul 
feels  as  the  cords  begin  to  unbind,  ere  it  leaves  its  clay  for¬ 
ever. 

Tom  at  last  would  not  sleep  in  his  room,  hut  lay  all  night 
in  the  outer  veranda,  ready  to  rouse  at  every  call. 

“  Uncle  Tom,  what  alive  have  you  taken  to  sleeping  any¬ 
where  and  everywhere,  like  a  dog,  for?”  said  Miss  Ophelia. 
“  I  thought  you  was  one  of  the  orderly  sort,  that  liked  to  lie 
in  bed  in  a  Christian  way.” 

“  I  do,  Miss  Feely,”  said  Tom  mysteriously.  "  I  do,  but 

now - 

“  Well,  what  now?  ” 

“We  mustn’t  speak  loud:  Mas’r  St.  Clare  won’t  hear  on’t; 
but,  Miss  Feely,  you  know  there  must  be  somebody  watchin* 
for  lire  bridegroom.” 

"What  do  you  mean,  Tom?” 


S98  TOOLE  TOM’S  CABIN;  OB, 

"You  know  it  says  in  Scripture,  *  At  midnight  there  was 
a  great  cry  made.  Behold  the  bridegroom  cometh.’  That’s 
what  I’m  spectin’  now,  every  night,  Miss  Feeiy,— and  I 
couldn’t  sleep  out  o’  bearin’,  noways.” 

“  Why,  Uncle  Tom,  what  makes  you  think  so?  ” 

“  Miss  Eva,  she  talks  to  me.  The  Lord,  he  sends  his  mes¬ 
senger  in  the  soul.  I  must  be  thar,  Miss  Feeiy;  for  when  that 
ar  blessed  child  goes  into  the  kingdom,  they’ll  open  the  door 
so  wide,  we’ll  all  get  a  look  in  at  glory,  Miss  Feeiy.” 

“  Uncle  Tom,  did  Miss  Eva  say  she  felt  more  unwell  than 
usual  to-night?  ” 

“KTo;  but  she  telled  me  this  morning  she  was  coming 
nearer, — thar’s  them  that  tells  it  to  the  child.  Miss  Feeiy. 
It’s  the  angels,—*  it’s  the  trumpet  sound  afore  the  break  o’ 
day,’  ”  said  Tom,  quoting  from  a  favorite  hymn. 

This  dialogue  passed  between  Miss  Ophelia  and  Tom 
between  ten  and  eleven  one  evening,  after  her  arrangements 
had  all  been  made  for  the  night,  when,  on  going  to  bolt  her 
outer  door,  she  found  Tom  stretched  along  by  it  in  the  outer 
veranda. 

She  was  not  nervous  or  impressible;  but  the  solemn,  heart¬ 
felt  manner  struck  her.  Eva  had  been  unusually  bright  and 
cheerful  that  afternoon,  and  had  sat  raised  in  her  bed  and 
looked  over  all  her  little  trinkets  and  precious  things, 
and  designated  the  friends  to  whom  she  would  have  them 
given;  and  her  manner  was  more  animated,  and  her  voice 
more  natural,  than  they  had  known  it  for  weeks.  Her  father 
had  been  in,  in  the  evening,  and  had  said  that  Eva  appeared 
more  like  her  former  self  than  ever  she  had  done  since  her 
sickness;  and  when  he  kissed  her  for  the  night,  he  said  to 
Miss  Ophelia,- — “  Cousin,  we  may  keep  her  with  us,  after 
all;  she  is  certainly  better;”  and  he  had  retired  with  a 
lighter  heart  in  his  bosom  than  he  had  had  for  weeks. 

But  at  midnight, — strange,  mystic  hour! — when  the  veil 
between  the  frail  present  and  the  eternal  future  grows  thin, 
then  came  the  messenger! 

There  was  a  sound  in  that  chamber,  first  of  one  who 
stepped  quickly.  It  was  Miss  Ophelia,  who  had  resolved  to 
sit  up  all  night  with  her  little  charge,  and  who,  at  the  turn 
of  the  nigdit,  had  discerned  what  experienced  nurses  signifi¬ 
cantly  call  a  “  change.”  The  outer  door  was  quickly  opened, 
and  Tom,  who  was  watching  outside,  was  on  the  alert  in  a 
moment 


LIFE  AMONG  '  THE  LOWLY. 


f§# 


*60  for  the  doctor,  Tom!  lose  not  a  moment,"  said  Mi m 
Ophelia;  and,  stepping  across  the  room,  she  rapped  at  SI 
Clare's  door. 

“  Cousin/'  she  said,  “  I  wish  yon  would  come/' 

These  words  fell  upon  his  heart  like  clods  upon  a  coffin* 
Why  did  they?  He  was  up  and  in  the  room  in  an  instant^ 
and  bending  over  Eva,  who  still  slept. 

What  was  it  he  saw  that  made  his  heart  stand  still? 
Why  was  no  word  spoken  between  the  two?  Thou  canst  say, 
who  hast  seen  that  same  expression  on  the  face  dearest  to 
thee; — that  look  indescribable,  hopeless,  unmistakable,  that 
says  to  thee  that  thy  beloved  is  no  longer  thine. 

On  the  face  of  the  child,  however,  there  was  no  ghastly 
imprint, — only  a  high  and  almost  sublime  expression,— the 
overshadowing  presence  of  spiritual  natures,  the  dawning  of 
immortal  life  in  that  childish  soul. 

They  stood  there  so  still,  gazing  upon  her,  that  even  the 
ticking  of  the  watch  seemed  too  loud.  In  a  few  moments 
Tom  returned  with  the  doctor.  He  entered,  gave  one  look, 
and  stood  silent  as  the  rest. 

“When  did  this  change  take  place?"  said  he,  in  a  low 
whisper,  to  Miss  Ophelia. 

“  About  the  turn  of  the  night,"  was  the  reply. 

Marie,  roused  by  the  entrance  of  the  doctor,  appeared 
hurriedly  from  the  next  room. 

“Augustine!  Cousin!— Oh!— what! "  she  hurriedly  be* 
gan. 

“  Hush!  "  said  St.  Clare  hoarsely;  “  she  is  dying!  " 

Mammy  heard  the  words,  and  flew  to  awaken  the  servants., 
The  house  was  soon  aroused, — lights  were  seen,  footsteps 
heard;  anxious  faces  thronged  the  veranda  and  looked  tear- 
fully  through  the  glass  doors;  but  St.  Clare  heard  and  said 
nothing,— he  saw  only  that  look  on  the  face  of  the  little 
sleeper. 

“  Oh,  if  she  would  only  wake,  and  speak  once  more! "  he 
said;  and,  stooping  over  her,  he  spoke  in  her  ear, — “  Eva, 
darling!  " 

The  large  blue  eyes  unclosed, — a  smile  passed  over  he! 
face; — she  tried  to  raise  her  head  and  to  speak. 

“  Do  you  know  me,  Eva?  " 

“  Dear  papa,"  said  the  child  with  a  last  effort,  throwing 
her  arms  around  his  neck.  In  a  moment  they  dropped  again, 
and,  as  St.  Clare  raised  his  head  he  saw  a  spasm,  of  mortal 


too  UNCLE  tom’s  cabin  ;  OB* 

agony  pass  over  the  face, —she  struggled  for  breath,  alS 
threw  up  her  little  hands. 

“  Oh,  God!  this  is  dreadful! ”  he  said,  turning  away  in 
agony,  and  wringing  Tom’s  hand,  scarce  conscious  what  he 
was  doing.  “  Oh,  Tom,  my  boy,  it  is  killing  me! 99 

Tom  had  his  master’s  hands  between  his  own;  and,  with 
tears  streaming  down  his  dark  cheeks,  looked  up  for  help 
where  he  had  always  been  used  to  look, 

“  Pray  that  this  may  be  cut  short! 99  said  St.  Clare, — “  this 
wrings  my  heart.” 

“  Oh,  bless  the  Lord!  it’s  over,— it’s  over,  dear  master!  ” 
said  Tom  ;  “  look  at  her.” 

The  child  lay  panting  on  her  pillows,  as  one  exhausted  — 
the  large  clear  eyes  rolled  up  and  fixed.  And  what  said  those 
eyes,  that  spoke  so  much  of  heaven?  Earth  was  past,  and 
earthly  pain;  but  so  solemn,  so  mysterious,  was  the  tri¬ 
umphant  brightness  of  that  face,  that  it  choked  even  the  sobs 
of  sorrow.  They  pressed  around  her,  in  breathless  stillness. 

“  Eva,”  said  St.  Clare  gently. 

She  did  not  hear. 

“Oh,  Eva,  tell  us  what  you  see!  What  is  it?”  said  her 
father. 

A  bright,  a  glorious  smile  passed  over  her  face,  and  she 
said  brokenly, — “  Oh!  love, — joy, — peace!  ”  gave  one  sigh, 
and  passed  from  death  unto  life! 

“  Farewell,  beloved  child!  the  bright,  eternal  doors  have 
closed  after  thee;  we  shall  see  thy  sweet  face  no  more.  Oh, 
woe  for  them  who  watched  thy  entrance  into  heaven,  when 
they  shall  wake  and  find  only  the  cold  gray  sky  of  daily  life 
and  thou  gone  forever!  ” 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

“this  is  the  last  of  earth.” 

— John  Q.  Adams . 

The  statuettes  and  pictures  in  Eva’s  room  were  shrouded 
in  white  napkins,  and  only  hushed  breathings  and  muffled 
footfalls  were  heard  there,  and  the  light  stole  in  solemnly 
through  windows  partially  darkened  by  closed  blinds. 

The  bed  was  draped  in  white;  and  there,  beneath  the 


LIFE  AMONG  THB  LOWLY, 


mi 


drooping  angel  figure,  lay  a  little  sleeping  form, —sleeping 
never  to  waken! 

There  she  lay,  robed  in  one  of  the  simple  white  dresses  she 
had  been  wont  to  wear  when  living;  the  rose-colored  light 
through  the  curtains  cast  over  the  icy  coldness  of  death  a 
warm  glow.  The  heavy  eyelashes  drooped  softly  on  the  pure 
cheek;  the  head  was  turned  a  little  to  one  side,  as  if  in  nat¬ 
ural  sleep,  but  there  was  diffused  over  every  lineament  of  the 
face  that  high  celestial  expression,  that  mingling  of  rapture 
and  repose,  which  showed  it  was  no  earthly  or  temporary 
sleep,  but  the  long,  sacred  rest  which  “  He  giveth  to  his  be¬ 
loved/' 

There  is  no  death  to  such  as  thou,  dear  Eva!  neither  dark¬ 
ness  nor  shadow  of  death;  only  such  a  bright  fading  as 
when  the  morning  star  fades  in  the  golden  dawn.  Thine  is 
the  victory  without  the  battle, — the  crown  without  the  con¬ 
flict. 

So  did  St.  Clare  think,  as  with  folded  arms  he  stood  there 
gazing.  Ah!  who  shall  say  wrhat  he  did  think?  for,  from  the 
hour  that  voices  had  said  in  the  dying  chamber,  “  She  is 
gone,”  it  had  been  all  a  dreary  mist,  a  heavy  “  dimness  of 
anguish.”  He  had  heard  voices  around  him,  he  had  had 
questions  asked  and  answered  them;  they  had  asked  him 
when  he  would  have  the  funeral  and  where  they  should  lay 
her:  and  he  had  answered  impatiently  that  he  cared  not. 

Adolph  and  Eosa  had  arranged  the  chamber;  volatile, 
fickle,  and  childish  as  they  generally  were,  they  were  soft¬ 
hearted  and  full  of  feeling;  and,  while  Miss  Ophelia  presided 
over  the  general  details  of  order  and  neatness,  it  was  their 
hands  that  added  those  soft  pathetic  touches  to  the  arrange¬ 
ments,  that  took  from  the  death-room  the  grim  and  ghastly 
air  which  too  often  marks  a  New  England  funeral. 

There  were  still  flowers  on  the  shelves,— all  white,  deli¬ 
cate,  and  fragrant,  with  graceful,  drooping  leaves.  Eva’s 
little  table,  covered  with  white,  bore  on  it  her  favorite  vase, 
with  a  single  white  moss  rosebud  in  it.  The  folds  of  the 
drapery,  the  fall  of  the  curtains,  had  been  arranged  and  re¬ 
arranged  by  Adolph  and  Eosa  with  that  nicety  of  eye  which 
characterizes  their  race.  Even  now,  while  St.  Clare  stood 
there  thinking,  little  Eosa  tripped  softly  into  the  chamber 
with  a  basket  of  white  flowers.  She  stepped  back  when  she 
saw  St.  Clare  and  stopped  respectfully;  but  seeing  that  he 
did  not  observe  her,  she  came  forward  to  place  them  around 


SO; 


UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN;  OB* 


the  dead.  St.  Clare  saw  her,  as  in  a  dream,  while  she  placet 
in  the  small  hands  a  fair  cape  jessamine,  and,  with  admirable 
taste,  disposed  other  flowers  around  the  couch. 

The  door  opened  again,  and  Topsj,  her  eyes  swelled  with 
crying,  appeared,  holding  something  under  her  apron.  Eosa 
made  a  quick  forbidding  gesture;  but  she  took  a  step  info  the 
room. 

“  You  must  go  out,”  said  Eosa,  in  a  sharp,  positive  whis¬ 
per;  u  you  haven’t  any  business  here!  ” 

“  Oh,  do  let  me!  I  brought  a  flower,— such  a  pretty  one!  ” 
said  Topsy,  holding  up  a  half-blown  tea  rosebud.  “  Do  let 
me  put  just  one  there.” 

“  Get  along,”  said  Eosa,  more  decidedly. 

“  Let  her  stay!  ”  said  St.  Clare  suddenly,  stamping  his 
foot.  “  She  shall  come.” 

Eosa  suddenly  retreated  and  Topsy  came  forward  and 
laid  her  offering  at  the  feet  of  the  corpse;  then,  suddenly, 
with  a  wild  and  bitter  cry,  she  threw  herself  on  the  floor 
alongside  the  bed,  and  wept,  and  moaned  aloud. 

Miss  Ophelia  hastened  into  the  room  and  tried  to  raise  and 
silence  her;  but  in  vain. 

“  Oh,  Miss  Eva!  Oh,  Miss  Eva!  I  wish  Fs  dead,  too,— 
I  do!” 

There  was  a  piercing  wildness  in  the  cry;  the  blood  flushed 
into  St.  Clare’s  white,  marble-like  face,  and  the  first  tears  he 
had  shed  since  Eva  died  stood  in  his  eyes. 

“  Get  up,  child”  said  Miss  Ophelia,  in  a  softened  voice, 
u  don’t  cry  so.  Miss  Eva  is  gone  +o  heaven;  she  is  an  angel.” 

“  But  I  can’t  see  her!”  said  Topsy.  “  I  never  shall  see 
her!  ”  and  she  sobbed  again. 

They  all  stood  a  moment  in  silence. 

“  She  said  she  loved  me,”  said  Topsy, — “  she  did!  Oh,  dear! 
Oh,  dear!  there  an’t  nobody  left  now,— there  an’t!  ” 

“  That’s  true  enough,”  said  St.  Clare;  “  but  do,”  he  said 
to  Miss  Ophelia,  “  see  if  you  can’t  comfort  the  poor  crea¬ 
ture.” 

“  I  jist  wish  I  hadn’t  never  been  born,”  said  Topsy.  “  I 
didn’t  want  to  be  born,  noways;  and  I  don’t  see  no  use  on’t.” 

Miss  Ophelia  raised  her  gently,  but  firmly,  and  took  her 
from  the  room;  but  as  she  did  so  some  tears  fell  from  her 
eyes. 

“  Topsy,  you  poor  child,”  she  said,  as  she  led  her  into  her 
room,  “  don’t  give  up!  I  can  love  you,  though  I  am  not  like 


LIFE  AMOKG  THE  LOWLY. 


S03 


that  dear  little  child.  I  hope  I've  learnt  something  of  the 
love  of  Christ  from  her.  I  can  love  you;  I  do*  and  I'll  try 
to  help  you  to  grow  up  a  good  Christian  girl.” 

Miss  Ophelia's  voice  was  more  than  her  words*  and  more 
than  that  were  the  honest  tears  that  fell  down  her  face. 
From  that  hour  she  acquired  an  influence  over  the  mind  of 
the  destitute  child  that  she  never  lost. 

“  Oh*  my  Eva*  whose  little  hour  on  earth  did  so  much  of 
good*''  thought  St.  Clare,  “  what  account  have  I  to  give  for 
my  long  years? '' 

There  were*  for  a  while,  soft  whisperings  and  footfalls  in 
the  chamber  as  one  after  another  stole  in  to  look  at  the 
dead;  and  then  came  the  little  coffin;  and  then  there  was  a 
funeral*  and  carriages  drove  to  the  door*  and  strangers  came 
and  were  seated;  and  there  were  white  scarfs  and  ribbons* 
and  crape  bands*  and  mourners  dressed  in  black  crape;  and 
there  were  words  read  from  the  Bible  and  prayers  offered; 
and  St.  Clare  lived*  and  walked,  and  moved  as  one  who  has 
shed  every  tear;  to  the  last  he  saw  only  one  thing*  that 
golden  head  in  the  coffin;  but  then  he  saw  the  cloth  spread 
over  it*  the  lid  of  the  coffin  closed;  and  he  walked,  when  he 
was  put  beside  the  others,  down  to  a  little  place  at  the  bot¬ 
tom  of  the  garden*  and  there*  by  the  mossy  seat  where  she 
and  Tom  had  talked*  and  sung,  and  read  so  often*  was  the 
little  grave.  St.  Clare  stood  beside  it, — looked  vacantly 
down;  he  saw  them  lower  the  little  coffin;  he  heard,  dimly* 
the  solemn  words*  “  I  am  the  Kesurrection  and  the  Life; 
he  that  believeth  in  Me*  though  he  were  dead*  yet  shall  he 
live; ''  and*  as  the  earth  was  cast  in  and  filled  up  the  little 
grave*  he  could  not  realize  that  it  was  his  Eva  that  they  were 
hiding  from  his  sight. 

Nor  was  it!— -not  Eva*  but  only  the  frail  seed  of  that 
bright*  immortal  form  with  which  she  shall  yet  come  forth 
in  the  day  of  the  Lord  Jesus! 

And  then  all  were  gone,  and  the  mourners  went  back  to 
the  place  which  should  know  her  no  more;  and  Marie's  room 
was  darkened,  and  she  lay  on  the  bed  sobbing  and  moaning 
in  uncontrollable  grief,  and  calling  every  moment  for  the 
attention  of  all  her  servants.  Of  course  they  had  no  time  to 
cry,— why  should  they?  the  grief  was  her  grief*  and  she  was 
fully  convinced  that  nobody  on  earth  did*  could*  or  would 
feel  it  as  she  did. 

“  St.  Clare  did  not  shed  a  tear/'  she  said;  w  he  didn't  sym« 


S 04 


TXNCLK  TOM’S  CABIN ; 

pathise  with  her;  it  was  perfectly  wonderful  to  think  how 
hard-hearted  and  unfeeling  he  was  when  he  must  know  how 
she  suffered.” 

So  much  are  people  the  slave  of  their  eye  and  ear  that 
many  of  the  servants  really  thought  that  “  missis  ”  was  the 
principal  sufferer  in  the  case,  especially  as  Marie  began  to 
have  hysterical  spasms,  and  sent  for  the  doctor,  and  at  last 
declared  herself  dying;  and,  in  the  running  and  scamper¬ 
ing  and  bringing  up  hot  bottles  and  heating  of  flannels  and 
chafing  and  fussing  that  ensued  there  was  quite  a  diversion. 

Tom,  however,  had  a  feeling  at  his  own  heart  that  drew 
him  to  his  master.  He  followed  him  wherever  he  walked, 
wistfully  and  sadly;  and  when  he  saw  him  sitting,  so  pale 
and  quiet,  in  Eva’s  room,  holding  before  his  eyes  her  little 
open  Bible,  though  seeing  no  letter  or  word  of  what  was  in 
it,  there  was  more  sorrow  to  Tom  in  that  still,  fixed,  tearless 
eye  than  in  all  Marie’s  moans  and  lamentations. 

In  a  few  days  the  St.  Clare  family  were  back  again  in  the 
city;  Augustine,  with  the  restlessness  of  grief,  longing  for 
another  scene  to  change  the  current  of  his  thoughts.  So 
they  left  the  house  and  garden,  with  its  little  grave,  and 
came  back  to  New  Orleans;  and  St.  Clare  walked  the  streets 
busily  and  strove  to  fill  up  the  chasm  in  his  heart  with  hurry 
and  bustle  and  change  of  place;  and  people  who  saw  him  in 
the  street  or  met  him  at  the  cafe ,  knew  of  his  loss  only  by  the 
weed  on  his  hat;  for  there  he  was,  smiling  and  talking,  and 
reading  the  newspaper,  and  speculating  on  politics,  and  at¬ 
tending  to  business  matters;  and  who  could  see  that  all  this 
smiling  outside  was  but  a  hollow  shell  over  a  heart  that  was 
a  dark  and  silent  sepulchre? 

“  Mr.  St.  Clare  is  a  singular  man,”  said  Marie  to  Miss 
Ophelia,  in  a  complaining  tone.  “  I  used  to  think,  if  there 
was  anything  in  the  world  he  did  love,  it  was  our  dear  little 
Eva;  but  he  seems  to  be  forgetting  her  very  easily.  I  cannot 
ever  get  him  to  talk  about  her.  I  really  did  think  he  would 
show  more  feeling!  ” 

“  Still  waters  run  deepest,  they  used  to  tell  me,”  said  Miss 
Ophelia  oracularly. 

“  Oh,  I  don’t  believe  in  such  things;  it’s  all  talk.  If  peo¬ 
ple  have  feeling  they  will  show  it,— they  can’t  help  it;  but, 
then,  it’s  a  great  misfortune  to  have  feeling.  I’d  rather  have 
been  made  like  St.  Clare.  My  feelings  prey  upon  me  so!  ” 

“  Sure,  missis,  Mas’r  St.  Clare  is  gettin’  thin  as  a  shadder® 


UFB  AMONG  THE  LOWLY, 


SOi 


They  say  he  don’t  ever  eat  nothin’/*  said  Mammy.  u  I  know 
he  don’t  forget  Miss  Eva;  I  know  there  couldn’t  nobody,— 
dear,  little  blessed  cretur!  ”  she  added,  wiping  her  eyes. 

“  Well,  at  all  events,  he  has  no  consideration  for  me/’  said 
Marie;  u  he  hasn’t  spoken  one  word  of  sympathy,  and  he 
must  know  how  much  more  a  mother  feels  than  any  man 
can.” 

“  The  heart  knoweth  its  own  bitterness/’  said  Miss  Ophelia 
gravely. 

“  That’s  just  what  I  think.  I  know  just  what  I  feel, — no¬ 
body  else  seems  to.  Eva  used  to,  but  she  is  gone!  ”  and  Marie 
lay  back  on  her  lounge  and  begun  to  sob  disconsolately. 

Marie  was  one  of  those  unfortunately  constituted  mor¬ 
tals  in  whose  eyes  whatever  is  lost  and  gone  assumes  a  value 
which  it  never  had  in  possession.  Whatever  she  had  she 
seemed  to  survey  only  to  pick  flaws  in  it;  but  once  fairly  away 
there  was  no  end  to  her  valuation  of  it. 

While  this  conversation  was  taking  place  in  the  parlor, 
another  was  going  on  in  St.  Glare’s  library. 

Tom,  who  was  always  uneasily  following  his  master  about, 
had  seen  him  go  to  his  library  some  hours  before;  and,  after 
vainly  waiting  for  him  to  come  out,  determined  at  last  to 
make  an  errand  in.  He  entered  softly.  St.  Clare  lay  on  hie 
lounge  at  the  further  end  of  the  room.  He  wras  lying  on  his 
face  with  Eva’s  Bible  open  before  him  at  a  little  distance. 
Tom  walked  up  and  stood  by  the  sofa.  He  hesitated;  and 
while  he  was  hesitating,  St.  Clare  suddenly  raised  himself 
up.  The  honest  face,  so  full  of  grief,  and  with  such  an  im¬ 
ploring  expression  of  affection  and  sympathy,  struck  his  mas¬ 
ter.  He  laid  his  hand  on  Tom’s  and  bowed  down  his  fore¬ 
head  on  it. 

“  Oh,  Tom,  my  boy,  the  whole  world  is  as  empty  as  an 
eggshell.” 

“  I  know  it,  mas’r,— I  know  it,”  said  Tom;  “  but,  oh,  if 
mas’r  could  only  look  up,— up  where  our  dear  Miss  Eva  is,— 
up  to  the  dear  Lord  Jesus!  ” 

“  Ah,  Tom!  I  do  look  up;  but  the  trouble  is  I  don’t  see 
anything  when  I  do.  I  wish  I  could.” 

Tom  sighed  heavily. 

“  It  seems  to  he  given  to  children  and  poor,  honest  fel¬ 
lows  like  you  to  see  what  we  can’t/’  said  St.  Clare.  “  How 
comes  it?  ” 

“ 4  Thou  hast  hid  from  the  wise  and  prudent,  and  revealed 


Bm 


UNCLE  TOM?S  CABIN  ;  ■  OB, 

mnto  babes/  ”  murmured  Tom;  “  (  even  so,  Father,  for  m 
it  seemed  good  in  Thy  sight/  ” 

“  Tom,  I  don’t  believe, — I  can’t  believe, — I’ve  got  the 
habit  of  doubting,”  said  St.  Clare.  “  I  want  to  believe  this 
Bible,— and  I  can’t.” 

“  Dear  mas’r,  pray  to  the  good  Lord, — ‘  Lord,  I  believe, 
help  thou  my  unbelief.’  ” 

“  Who  knows  anything  about  anything?  ”  said  St.  Clare, 
his  eyes  wandering  dreamily,  and  speaking  to  himself.  “  Was 
all  that  beautiful  love  and  faith  only  one  of  the  ever-shifting 
phases  of  human  feeling,  having  nothing  real  to  rest  on, 
passing  away  with  the  little  breath?  And  is  there  no  more 
Eva,— no  heaven,— no  Christ, — nothing?” 

“  Oh,  dear  mas’r,  there  is!  I  know  it;  I’m  sure  of  it,” 
said  Tom,  falling  on  his  knees.  “  Do,  do,  dear  mas’r,  believe 
it!  ” 

“  How  do  you  know  there’s  any  Christ,  Tom?  You  never 
saw  the  Lord.” 

“  Felt  him  in  my  soul,  mas’r, — feel  him  now!  Oh,  mas’r, 
when  I  was  sold  away  from  my  old  woman  and  the  children 
I  wras  jest  a’most  broke  up.  I  felt  as  if  there  warn’t  nothin’ 
left:  and  then  the  good  Lord  he  stood  by  me,  and  he  says, 
*  Fear  not,  Tom  ’;  and  he  brings  light  and  joy  into  a  poor 
feller’s  soul, — makes  all  peace;  and  I’s  so  happy,  and  loves 
everybody,  and  feels  willin’  jest  to  be  the  Lord’s,  and  have 
the  Lord’s  will  done,  and  be  put  jest  where  the  Lord  wants 
to  put  me.  I  know  it  couldn’t  come  from  me,  ’cause  I’s  a 
poor,  complainin’  cretur;  it  comes  from  the  Lord;  and  I 
know  he’s  willin’  to  do  for  mas’r.” 

Tom  spoke  with  fast-running  tears  and  choking  voice. 
St.  Clare  leaned  his  head  on  his  shoulder  and  wrung  the 
hard,  faithful,  black  hand. 

“  Tom,  you  love  me,”  he  said. 

“  I’s  whilin’  to  lay  down  my  life,  this  blessed  day,  to  see 
mas’r  a  Christian.” 

“  Poor,  foolish  boy!  ”  said  St.  Clare,  half  raising  himself. 
“I’m  not  worth  the  love  of  one  good,  honest  heart  like 
yours.” 

“  Oh,  mas’r,  dere’s  more  than  me  loves  you,— the  blessed 
Lord  Jesus  loves  you.” 

How  do  you  know  that,  Tom?”  said  St.  Clare. 

“  Feels  it  in  my  soul.  Oh,  mas’r!  *  the  love  of  Christ,  that 
passnth  knowledge.’  ” 


LIFE  AMOMG  THE  LOWLY. 


eor 


46  Singular!  ”  said  St.  Clare,  turning  away,  "  that  the  story 
®t  a  Man  that  lived  and  died  eighteen  hundred  years  ago 
can  affect  people  so  yet.  But  He  was  no  man,”  he  added 
suddenly.  “  No  man  ever  had  such  long  and  living  power! 
Oh,  that  I  could  believe  what  my  mother  taught  me  and 
pray  as  I  did  when  I  was  a  boy!  ” 

“  If  mas’r  pleases,”  said  Tom,  “  Miss  Eva  used  to  read  this 
so  beautifully.  I  wish  masT  ’d  be  so  good  as  read  it.  Don’t 
get  no  readin’  hardly  now  Miss  Eva’s  gone.” 

The  chapter  was  the  eleventh  of  John,— the  touching  ac¬ 
count  of  the  raising  of  Lazarus.  St.  Clare  read  it  aloud,  often 
pausing  to  wrestle  down  feelings  which  were  roused  by  the 
pathos  of  the  story.  Tom  knelt  before  him,  with  clasped 
hands  and  with  an  absorbed  expression  of  love,  trust,  adora¬ 
tion  on  his  quiet  face. 

“  Tom,”  said  his  master,  “  this  is  all  real  to  you.” 

“  I  can  jest  fairly  see  it,  mas’r,”  said  Tom. 

“  I  wish  I  had  your  eyes,  Tom.” 

“  I  wish  to  the  dear  Lord  mas’r  had!  ” 

“  But,  Tom,  you  know  that  I  have  a  great  deal  more  knowl¬ 
edge  than  you:  what  if  I  should  tell  you  that  I  don’t  believe 
this  Bible?  ” 

“  Oh,  mas’r!  ”  said  Tom,  holding  up  his  hands  with  a 
deprecating  gesture. 

“  Wouldn’t  it  shake  your  faith  some,  Tom?  ” 

“  Not  a  grain,”  said  Tom. 

“  Why,  Tom,  you  must  know  I  know  the  most.” 

“  Oh,  mas’r,  haven’t  you  jest  read  how  he  hides  from  the 
wise  and  prudent  and  reveals  unto  babes?  But  mas’r  wasn’t 
in  earnest,  for  sartin,  now?  ”  said  Tom  anxiously. 

“  No,  Tom,  I  was  not.  I  don’t  disbelieve,  and  I  think 
there  is  reason  to  believe;  and  still,  I  don’t.  It’s  a  trouble¬ 
some  bad  habit  I’ve  got,  Tom.” 

“  If  mas’r  would  only  pray!  ” 

“  How  do  you  know  I  don’t,  Tom?  ” 

“  Does  mas’r?  ” 

“  I  would,  Tom,  if  there  was  anybody  there  when  I  pray: 
but  it’s  all  speaking  unto  nothing  when  I  do.  But  come, 
Tom,  you  pray,  now,  and  show  me  how.” 

Tom’s  heart  was  full;  he  poured  it  out  in  prayer,  like 
waters  that  have  been  long  suppressed.  One  thing  was 
plain  enough:  Tom  thought  there  was  somebody  to  hear, 
whether  there  were  or  not.  In  fact,  St  Clare  felt  himself 


1 108  tmcLE  tom’s  cabin;  ob* 

borne  on  the  tide  of  his  faith  and  feeling  almost  to  the  gates 
of  that  heaven  he  seemed  so  vividly  to  conceive.  It  seemed 
to  bring  him  nearer  to  Eva. 

“  Thank  you,  my  boy,”  said  St.  Clare,  when  Tom  rose  ;  a  I 
like  to  hear  you,  Tom;  but  go,  now,  and  leave  me  alone; 
some  other  time  I’ll  talk  more.” 

Tom  silently  left  the  room. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

REUNION. 

Week  after  week  glided  away  in  the  St.  Clare  mansion, 
and  the  waves  of  life  settled  back  to  their  usual  flow,  where 
that  little  bark  had  gone  down.  For  how  imperiously,  how 
coolly,  in  disregard  of  all  one’s  feelings,  does  the  hard,  cold, 
uninteresting  course  of  daily  realities  move  on!  Still  must 
we  eat,  and  drink,  and  sleep,  and  wake  again, — still  bargain, 
buy,  sell,  ask  and  answer  questions,— pursue,  in  short,  a 
thousand  shadows,  though  all  interest  in  them  be  over;  the 
cold,  mechanical  habit  of  living  remaining  after  all  vital  in¬ 
terest  in  it  has  fled. 

All  the  interests  and  hopes  of  St.  Clare’s  life  had  un¬ 
consciously  wound  themselves  around  this  child.  It  was  for 
Eva  that  he  had  managed  his  property;  it  was  for  Eva  that 
he  had  planned  the  disposal  of  his  time;  and,  to  do  this  and 
that  for  Eva,— to  buy,  improve,  alter,  and  arrange  or  dis¬ 
pose  something  for  her,— had  been  so  long  his  habit  that 
now  she  was  gone  there  seemed  nothing  to  be  thought  of 
and  nothing  to  be  done. 

True,  there  was  another  life, — a  life  which  once  believed 
in,  stands  as  a  solemn,  significant  figure  before  the  otherwise 
unmeaning  ciphers  of  time,  changing  them  to  orders  of  mys¬ 
terious,  untold  va7ne.  St.  Clare  knew  this  well;  and  often, 
in  many  a  weary  hour,  he  heard  that  slender,  childish  voice 
calling  him  to  the  skies,  and  saw  that  little  hand  pointing  to 
him  the  way  of  life;  but  a  heavy  lethargy  of  sorrow  lay  on 
him, — he  could  not  arise.  He  had  one  of  those  natures 
which  could  better  and  more  clearly  conceive  of  religious 
things  from  its  own  perceptions  and  instincts  than  many  a 
matter-of-fact  and  practical  Christian.  The  gift  to  appro- 


LIFE  AMONO  THE  LOWLY, 


809 


elate  and  the  sense  to  feel  the  finer  shades  and  relations  of 
moral  things  often  seems  an  attribute  of  those  whose  life 
shows  a  careful  disregard  of  them.  Hence  Moore,  Byron, 
Goethe,  often  speak  words  more  wisely  descriptive  of  the 
true  religious  sentiment  than  another  man  whose  whole  life 
is  governed  by  it.  In  such  minds  disregard  of  religion  is  a 
more  fearful  treason, — a  more  deadly  sin. 

St.  Clare  had  never  pretended  to  govern  himself  by  any 
religious  obligation;  and  a  certain  fineness  of  nature  gave 
him  such  an  instinctive  view  of  the  extent  of  the  require** 
ments  of  Christianity  that  he  shrank,  by  anticipation,  from 
what  he  felt  would  be  the  exactions  of  his  own  conscience 
if  he  once  did  resolve  to  assume  them.  For,  so  inconsistent 
is  human  nature,  especially  in  the  ideal,  that  not  to  under¬ 
take  a  thing  at  all  seems  better  than  to  undertake  and  come 
short. 

Still  St.  Clare  was  in  many  respects  another  man.  He  read 
his  little  Eva’s  Bible  seriously  and  honestly;  he  thought 
more  soberly  and  practically  of  his  relations  to  his  servants, 
—enough  to  make  him  extremely  dissatisfied  with  both  his 
past  and  present  course;  and  one  thing  he  did,  soon  after  his 
return  to  New  Orleans,  and  that  was  to  commence  the  legal 
steps  necessary  to  Tom’s  emancipation,  which  was  to  be  per¬ 
fected  as  soon  as  he  could  get  through  the  necessary  for¬ 
malities.  Meantime  he  attached  himself  to  Tom  more  and 
more  every  day.  In  all  the  wide  world  there  was  nothing 
that  seemed  to  remind  him  so  much  of  Eva;  and  he  would 
insist  on  keeping  him  constantly  about  him,  and,  fastidious 
and  unapproachable  as  he  was  with  regard  to  his  deeper  feel¬ 
ings,  he  almost  thought  aloud  to  Tom.  Nor  would  anyone 
have  wondered  at  it  who  had  seen  the  expression  of  affec¬ 
tion  and  devotion  with  which  Tom  continually  followed  his 
young  master. 

“  Well,  Tom,”  said  St.  Clare,  the  day  after  he  had  com¬ 
menced  the  legal  formalities  for  his  enfranchisement,  “  I’m 
going  to  make  a  free  man  of  you;  so,  have  your  trunk  packed 
and  get  ready  to  set  out  for  Kentuck.” 

The  sudden  light  of  joy  that  shone  in  Tom’s  face  as  he 
raised  his  hands  to  heaven,  his  emphatic  “  Bless  the  Lord!  ” 
rather  discomposed  St.  Clare;  he  did  not  like  it  that  Tom 
should  be  so  ready  to  leave  him. 

“  You  haven’t  had  such  very  bad  times  here  that  you 
need  be  m  such  a  rapture,  Tom,”  he  said  dryly. 


810 


UNCLE  tom’s  cabin;  or3 

“  No,  no,  mas’r!  ’tan’t  that, — it’s  bein’  a  free  man!  Thai’s 
what  I’m  joyin’  for.” 

“Why,  Tom,  don’t  you  think,  for  your  own  part,  you’ve 
been  better  off  than  to  be  free?  ” 

“No,  indeed,  Mas’r  St.  Clare,”  said  Tom,  with  a  flash  of 
energy.  “  No,  indeed!  ” 

“  Why,  Tom,  you  couldn’t  possibly  have  earned  by  your 
work  such  clothes  and  such  a  living  as  I  have  given  you.” 

“Knows  all  that,  Mas’r  St.  Clare;  mas’r’s  been  too  good; 
but,  mas’r,  I’d  rather  have  poor  clothes,  poor  house,  poor 
everything,  and  have  them  mine ,  than  have  the  best  and 
have  ’em  any  man’s  else, — I  had  so,  mas’r.  I  think  it’s  na- 
tur,  mas’r.” 

“  I  suppose  so,  Tom,  and  you’ll  be  going  oif  and  leaving 
me  in  a  month  or  so,”  he  added,  rather  discontentedly. 
“  Though  why  you  shouldn’t,  no  mortal  knows,”  he  said  in 
a  gayer  tone;  and,  getting  up,  he  began  to  walk  the  floor. 

“  Not  while  mas’r  is  in  trouble,”  said  Tom.  “  I’ll  stay 
with  mas’r  as  long  as  he  wants  me, — so  as  I  can  be  any 
use.” 

“Not  while  I’m  in  trouble,  Tom?”  said  St.  Clare,  looking 
sadly  out  of  the  window.  “  And  when  will  my  trouble  be 
over?  ” 

“  When  Mas’r  St.  Clare’s  a  Christian,”  said  Tom. 

“And  you  really  mean  to  stay  by  till  that  day  comes?” 
said  St.  Clare,  half  smiling,  as  he  turned  from  the  window 
and  laid  his  hand  on  Tom’s  shoulder.  “  Aye,  Tom,  you  soft, 
silly  boy!  I  won’t  keep  you  till  that  day.  Go  home  to  your 
wife  and  children  and  give  my  love  to  all.” 

“  I’s  faith  to  believe  that  day  will  come,”  said  Tom  ear¬ 
nestly,  and  with  tears  in  his  eyes;  “  the  Lord  has  a  work  for 
mas’r.” 

“A  work,  hey?”  said  St.  Clare;  “well,  now,  Tom,  give 
me  your  views  on  what  sort  of  a  work  it  is;— let’s  hear.” 

“  Why,  even  a  poor  fellow  like  me  has  a  work  from  the 
Lord;  and  Mas’r  St.  Clare  that  has  lamin’  and  riches  and 
friends,— how  much  he  might  do  for  the  Lord!” 

“  Tom,  you  seem  to  think  the  Lord  needs  a  great  deal  done 
for  him,”  said  St.  Clare,  smiling. 

“  We  does  for  the  Lord  when  we  does  for  his  eritturs,” 
said  Tom. 

“  Good  theology,  Tom;  better  than  Dr.  B.  preaches,  I  dare 
swear,”  said  St  Clare. 


LIFE  AMONG  THB  LOWLY. 


an 


The  conversation  was  here  interrupted  by  the  announce¬ 
ment  of  some  visitors. 

Marie  St.  Clare  felt  the  loss  of  Eva  as  deeply  as  she  could 
feel  anything;  and,  as  she  was  a  woman  that  had  a  great 
faculty  of  making  everybody  unhappy  when  she  was,  her 
immediate  attendants  had  still  stronger  reasons  to  i  egret 
the  loss  of  their  young  mistress,  whose  winning  ways  and 
gentle  intercessions  had  so  often  been  a  shield  to  them  from 
the  tyrannical  and  selfish  exactions  of  her  mother.  Poor 
old  Mammy,  in  particular,  whose  heart,  severed  from  all  nat¬ 
ural  domestic  ties,  had  consoled  itself  with  this  one  beauti¬ 
ful  being,  was  almost  heartbroken.  She  cried  day  and  night, 
and  was,  from  excess  of  sorrow,  less  skillful  and  alert  in  her 
ministrations  on  her  mistress  than  usual,  which  drew  down 
a  constant  storm  of  invectives  on  her  defenseless  head. 

Miss  Ophelia  felt  the  loss;  but  in  her  good  and  honest 
heart  it  bore  fruit  unto  everlasting  life.  She  was  more  soft¬ 
ened,  more  gentle;  and,  though  equally  assiduous  in  every 
duty,  it  was  with  a  chastened  and  quiet  air,  as  one  who  com¬ 
muned  with  her  own  heart  not  in  vain.  She  was  more  dili¬ 
gent  in  teaching  Topsy,— taught  her  mainly  from  the  Bible, — 
did  not  any  longer  shrink  from  her  touch  or  manifest  an  ill- 
repressed  disgust,  because  she  felt  none.  She  viewed  her  now 
through  the  softened  medium  that  Eva’s  hand  had  first  held 
before  her  eyes,  and  saw  in  her  only  an  immortal  creature, 
whom  God  had  sent  to  be  led  by  her  to  glory  and  virtue. 
Topsy  did  not  become  at  once  a  saint;  but  the  life  and  death 
of  Eva  did  work  a  marked  change  in  her.  The  callous  in¬ 
difference  was  gone;  there  was  now  sensibility,  hope,  desire, 
and  the  striving  for  good, — -a  strife  irregular,  interrupted, 
suspended  oft,  but  yet  renewed  again. 

One  day  when  Topsy  had  been  sent  for  by  Miss  Ophelia, 
she  came,  hastily  thrusting  something  into  her  bosom. 

“  What  are  you  doing  there,  you  limb.  You’ve  been  steal¬ 
ing  something,  I’ll  be  bound,”  said  the  imperious  little  Eosa, 
who  had  been  sent  to  call  her,  seizing  her  at  the  same  time 
roughly  by  the  arm. 

“  You  go  ’long,  Miss  Eosa!  ”  said  Topsy,  pulling  from  her; 
“  ’tan’t  none  o’  your  business!  ” 

“None  o’  your  sa’ce!  ”  said  Eosa.  “I  saw  you  hiding 
something,— I  know  yer  tricks,”  and  Eosa  seized  her  arm 
and  tried  to  force  her  hand  into  her  bosom,  while  Topsy, 
enraged,  kicked  and  fought  valiantly  for  what  she  consid- 


312 


UNCLE  TOM5S  CABIN  J  OR, 

ered  her  rights.  The  clamor  and  confusion  of  the  batik 
drew  Miss  Ophelia  and  St.  Clare  both  to  the  spot. 

“  She’s  been  stealing!  ”  said  Rosa. 

“  I  han’t  neither!  ”  vociferated  Topsy,  sobbing  with  pas¬ 
sion. 

“  Give  me  that,  whatever  it  is!  ”  said  Miss  Ophelia  firmly. 

Topsy  hesitated;  but  on  a  second  order,  pulled  out  of  her 
bosom  a  little  parcel  done  up  in  the  foot  of  one  of  her  own 
old  stockings. 

Miss  Ophelia  turned  it  out.  There  was  a  small  book,  which 
had  been  given  to  Topsy  by  Eva,  containing  a  single  verse 
of  Scripture,  arranged  for  every  day  in  the  year,  and  in  a 
paper  the  curl  of  hair  that  she  had  given  her  on  that  mem¬ 
orable  day  when  she  had  taken  her  last  farewell. 

St.  Clare  was  a  good  deal  affected  at  the  sight  of  it;  the 
little  book  had  been  rolled  in  a  long  strip  of  black  crape 
torn  from  the  funeral  weeds. 

“  What  did  you  wrap  this  around  the  book  for?  ”  said  St. 
Clare,  holding  up  the  crape. 

“  ’Cause,— ’cause,— ’cause  ’twas  Miss  Eva’s.  Oh,  don’t  take 
’em  away,  please!  ”  she  said;  and,  sitting  flat  down  on  the 
floor  and  putting  her  apron  over  her  head,  she  began  to  sob 
vehemently. 

It  was  a  curious  mixture  of  the  pathetic  and  the  ludicrous, 
— the  little  old  stocking, — black  crape,— text-hook, — fair, 
soft  curl, — -and  Topsy’s  utter  distress. 

St.  Clare  smiled;  but  there  were  tears  in  his  eyes  as  he 
said: 

“  Come,  come,— don’t  cry;  you  shall  have  them.”  And, 
putting  them  together,  he  threw  them  into  her  lap  and  drew 
Miss  Ophelia  with  him  into  the  parlor. 

“  I  really  think  you  can  make  something  of  that  concern,” 
he  said,  pointing  with  his  thumb  backward  over  his  shoulder. 
“  Any  mind  that  is  capable  of  a  real  sorrow  is  capable  of  good. 
You  must  try  and  do  something  with  her.” 

“  The  child  has  improved  greatly,”  said  Miss  Ophelia. 
“  I  have  great  hopes  of  her;  but,  Augustine,”  she  said,  laying 
her  hand  on  his  arm,  “  one  thing  I  want  to  ask;  whose  is  this 
child  to  be?— yours  or  mine?” 

“  Why,  I  gave  her  to  you”  said  Augustine. 

“  But  not  legally;— I  want  her  to  be  mine  legally,”  said 
Miss  Ophelia. 

■  “  Whew!  cousin,”  said  Augustine.  “  What  will  the  Abo- 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY.  SIS 

lition  Society  think?  They’ll  have  a  day  of  fasting  appointed 
for  this  backsliding  if  you  become  a  slave-holder!  ” 

“  Oh,  nonsense!  I  want  her  mine  that  I  may  have  a  right 
to  take  her  to  the  free  States  and  give  her  her  liberty,  that 
all  I  am  trying  to  do  be  not  undone.” 

u  Oh,  cousin,  what  an  awful  *  doing  evil  that  good  may 
come’  !  I  can’t  encourage  it.” 

“  I  don’t  want  you  to  joke,  but  to  reason,”  said  Miss 
Ophelia.  “  There  is  no  use  in  my  trying  to  make  this  child 
a  Christian  child  unless  I  save  her  from  all  the  chances  and 
reverses  of  slavery;  and,  if  you  really  are  willing  I  should 
have  her,  I  want  you  to  give  me  a  deed  of  gift  or  some  legal 
paper.” 

u  Well,  well,”  said  St.  Clare,  “  I  will;  ”  and  he  sat  down 
and  unfolded  a  newspaper  to  read. 

“  But  I  want  it  done  now,”  said  Miss  Ophelia. 

“  What’s  your  hurry?  ” 

“  Because  now  is  the  only  time  there  ever  is  to  do  a  thing 
in,”  said  Miss  Ophelia.  “  Come,  now,  here’s  paper,  pen,  and 
ink;  just  write  a  paper.” 

St.  Clare,  like  most  men  of  his  class  of  mind,  cordially 
hated  the  present  tense  of  action  generally;  and,  therefore, 
he  was  considerably  annoyed  by  Miss  Ophelia’s  downright¬ 
ness. 

“  Why,  what’s  the  matter?  ”  said  he.  “  Can’t  you  take  my 
word?  One  would  think  you  had  taken  lessons  of  the  Jews, 
coming  at  a  fellow  so!  ” 

“  I  want  to  make  sure  of  it,”  said  Miss  Ophelia.  “  You 
may  die,  or  fail,  and  then  Topsy  be  hustled  off  to  auction 
spite  of  all  I  can  do.” 

“  Beally,  you  are  quite  provident.  Well,  seeing  I’m  in  the 
hands  of  a  Yankee,  there  is  nothing  for  it  but  to  concede;  ” 
and  St.  Clare  rapidly  wrote  off  a  deed  of  gift,  which,  as  he 
was  well  versed  in  the  forms  of  law,  he  could  easily  do,  and 
signed  his  name  to  it  in  sprawling  capitals,  concluding  by  a 
tremendous  flourish. 

“  There,  isn’t  that  black  and  white,  now,  Miss  Venn  out?  ” 
he  said,  as  he  handed  it  to  her. 

“  Good  boy!  ”  said  Miss  Ophelia,  smiling.  “  But  must  it 
not  be  witnessed?  ” 

“  Oh,  bother! — yes.  Here,”  he  said,  opening  the  door 
into  Marie’s  apartment,  “  Marie,  cousin  wants  your  auto¬ 
graph;  just  put  your  name  down  here.” 


SI 4  UNCLE  tom’s  CABOT  ;  OB, 

“  W hat’s  this  ? 35  said  Marie,  as  she  ran  over  the  paper, 
“  Ridiculous!  I  thought  cousin  was  too  pious  for  such  hor¬ 
rid  things/3  she  added,  as  she  carelessly  wrote  her  name; 
“  but,  if  she  has  a  fancy  for  that  article  X  am  sure  she’s  wel¬ 
come.” 

“  There,  now,  she’s  yours,  body  and  soul,”  said  St.  Clare, 
handing  the  paper. 

“  No  more  mine  now  than  she  was  before,”  said  Miss 
Ophelia.  “  Nobody  but  God  has  a  right  to  give  her  to  me; 
but  X  can  protect  her  now.” 

“  Well,  she’s  your’s  by  fiction  of  law,  then,”  said  St.  Clare, 
as  he  turned  back  into  the  parlor  and  sat  down  to  his  paper. 

Miss  Ophelia,  who  seldom  sat  much  in  Marie’s  company, 
followed  him  into  the  parlor,  having  first  carefully  laid  away 
the  paper. 

“  Augustine,”  she  said  suddenly,  as  she  sat  knitting,  “  have 
you  ever  made  any  provision  for  your  servants  in  case  of  your 
death?” 

“  No,”  said  St.  Clare,  as  he  read  on. 

“  Then  all  your  indulgence  to  them  may  prove  a  great 
cruelty  by  and  by.” 

St.  Clare  had  often  thought  the  same  thing  himself;  but 
he  answered  negligently: 

“  Well,  I  mean  to  make  a  provision  by  and  by.” 

“When?”  said  Miss  Ophelia. 

“  OH,  one  of  these  days.” 

“What  if  you  should  die  first?” 

“  Cousin,  what’s  the  matter?”  said  St.  Clare,  laying  down 
his  paper  and  looking  at  her.  “  Do  you  think  I  show  symp¬ 
toms  of  yellow  fever  or  cholera  that  you  are  making  post¬ 
mortem  arrangements  with  such  zeal?” 

“  ‘  In  the  midst  of  life  we  are  in  death/  ”  said  Miss  Ophelia. 

St.  Clare  rose  up,  and,  laying  the  paper  down  carelessly, 
walked  to  the  door  that  stood  open  on  the  veranda  to  put 
an  end  to  a  conversation  that  was  not  agreeable  to  him. 
Mechanically  he  repeated  the  last  word  again, — “  Death!  ” 
and,  as  he  leaned  against  the  railings  and  watched  the 
sparkling  water  as  it  rose  and  fell  in  the  fountain,  and,  as  in 
a  dim  and  dizzy  haze,  saw  the  flowers  and  trees  and  vases 
of  the  courts,  he  repeated  again  the  mystic  word  so  common 
in  every  mouth,  yet  of  such  fearful  power. — “  Death!  ” 
“  Strange  that  there  should  he  such  a  word,”  he  said,  “  and 
such  a  thing,  and  we  ever  forget  it;  that  one  should  be  liv® 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY. 


315 


mg,  warm,  and  beautiful,  full  of  hopes,  desires,  and  wants, 
one  day,  and  the  next  be  gone,  utterly  gone,  and  forever!  ” 

It.  was  a  warm,  golden  evening;  and  as  he  walked  to  the 
other  end  of  the  veranda  he  saw  Tom  busily  intent  on  his 
Bible,  pointing,  as  he  did  so,  with  his  finger  to  each  succes¬ 
sive  word,  and  whispering  them  to  himself  with  an  earnest 
air. 

“Want  me  to  read  to  you,  Tom?”  said  St.  Clare,  seating 
himself  carelessly  by  him. 

“  If  mash  pleases,”  said  Tom  gratefully;  “  mash  makes 
it  so  much  plainer.” 

St.  Clare  took  the  book  and  glanced  at  the  place,  and  be¬ 
gan  reading  one  of  the  passages  which  Tom  had  designated 
by  the  heavy  marks  around  it.  It  ran  as  follows: 

“  When  the  Son  of  man  shall  come  in  his  glory,  and  all 
his  holy  angels  with  him,  then  shall  he  sit  upon  the  throne 
of  his  glory;  and  before  him  shall  be  gathered  all  nations; 
and  he  shall  separate  them  one  from  another,  as  a  shepherd 
divideth  his  sheep  from  the  goats.”  St.  Clare  read  on  in  an 
animated  voice  till  he  came  to  the  last  of  the  verses. 

“  Then  shall  the  king  say  unto  them  on  his  left  hand, 
Depart  from  me,  ye  cursed,  into  everlasting  fire:  for  I  was 
an  hungered,  and  ye  gave  me  no  meat:  I  was  thirsty,  and 
ye  gave  me  no  drink:  I  was  a  stranger,  and  ye  took  me  not 
in:  naked,  and  ye  clothed  me  not:  I  was  sick,  and  in  prison, 
and  ye  visited  me  not.  Then  shall  they  answer  unto  him, 
Lord,  when  saw  we  thee  an  hungered,  or  athirst,  or  a 
stranger,  or  naked,  or  sick,  or  in  prison,  and  did  not  minister 
unto  thee?  Then  shall  he  say  unto  them,  Inasmuch  as  ye 
did  it  not  to  one  of  the  least  of  these  my  brethren,  ye  did 
it  not  to  me.” 

St.  Clare  seemed  struck  with  this  last  passage,  for  he  read 
it  twice,  the  second  time  slowly,  and  as  if  he  were  revolving 
the  words  in  his  mind. 

“  Tom,”  he  said,  “  these  folks  that  get  such  hard  measure 
seem  to  have  been  doing  just  what  I  have, — living  good,  easy, 
respectable  lives;  and  not  troubling  themselves  to  inquire 
how  many  of  their  brethren  were  hungry,  or  athirst,  or  sick^ 
or  in  prison.” 

Tom  did  not  answer. 

St.  Clare  rose  up  and  walked  thoughtfully  up  and  down 
the  veranda,  seeming  to  forget  everything  in  his  own 

thoimi’-  so  absorbed  was  he,  that  Tom  had  to  remind  him 


316  UNCLE  tom’s  cabin;  ok, 

twice  that  the  teabell  had  rung,  before  he  could  get  his  at¬ 
tention  . 

St.  Clare  was  absent  and  thoughtful  all  teatime,  After 
tea  he  and  Marie  and  Miss  Ophelia  took  possession  of  the 
parlor,  almost  in  silence. 

Marie  disposed  herself  on  a  lounge,  under  a  silken  mos¬ 
quito  curtain,  and  was  soon  sound  asleep.  Miss  Ophelia 
silently  busied  herself  with  her  knitting.  St.  Clare  sat 
down  to  the  piano  and  began  playing  a  soft  and  melancholy 
movement  with  the  ZEolian  accompaniment.  He  seemed 
in  a  deep  reverie,  and  to  be  soliloquizing  to  himself  by  music. 
After  a  little  he  opened  one  of  the  drawers,  took  out  an  old 
music-book  whose  leaves  were  yellow  with  age,  and  began 
turning  it  over. 

“  There/’  he  said  to  Miss  Ophelia,  “  this  was  one  of  my 
mother’s  books,* — and  here  is  her  handwriting, — come  and 
look  at  it.  She  copied  and  arranged  this  from  Mozart’s  Re¬ 
quiem.”  Miss  Ophelia  came  accordingly. 

“  It  was  something  she  used  to  sing  often,”  said  St.  Clare. 
“  I  think  I  can  hear  her  now.” 

He  struck  a  few  majestic  chords,  and  began  singing  that 
grand  old  Latin  piece,  the  “  Dies  Irae.” 

Tom,  who  was  listening  in  the  outer  veranda,  was  drawn 
by  the  sound  to  the  very  door,  where  he  stood  earnestly.  He 
did  not  understand  the  words,  of  course;  but  the  music  and 
manner  of  singing  appeared  to  affect  him  strongly,  especially 
when  St.  Clare  sang  the  more  pathetic  parts.  Tom  would 
have  sympathized  more  heartily  if  he  had  known  the  mean¬ 
ing  of  the  beautiful  words: 

"  Recordare  Jesu  pie 
Quod  sum  causa  tuse  vise 
Ne  me  perdas,  ilia  die ; 

Quserens  me  sedisti  iassus, 

Redemisfci  crucem  passus, 

Tanfcus  labor  non  sit'cassus.*'* 

St.  Clare  threw  a  deep  and  pathetic  expression  into  the 
Words;  for  the  shadowy  veil  of  years  seemed  drawn  away, 

*  These  lines  have  been  thus  rather  inadequately  translated  : 

“  Think.  O  Jesus,  for  what  reason 
Thou  endured’st  earth's  spite  and  treason. 

Nor  me  lose,  in  that  dread  season  ; 

Seeking  me,  thy  worn  feet  hasted. 

On  the  cross  thy  soul  death  tasted, 

Let  not  all  these  toils  be  wasted/’ 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY. 


sit 


End  he  seemed  to  hear  his  mother’s  voice  leading  his.  Yoice 
and  instrument  seemed  both  living,  and  threw  out  with 
vivid  sympathy  those  strains  which  the  ethereal  Mozart  first 
conceived  as  his  own  dying  requiem. 

When  St.  Clare  had  done  singing  he  sat  leaning  his  head 
upon  his  hand  a  few  moments,  and  then  began  walking  up 
and  down  the  floor. 

“  What  a  sublime  conception  is  that  of  a  last  judgment! ” 
said  he, — “a  righting  of  all  the  wrongs  of  ages! — a  solving 
of  all  moral  problems  by  en  unanswerable  wisdom!  It  is, 
indeed,  a  wonderful  image.” 

“  It  is  a  fearful  one  to  us,”  said  Miss  Ophelia. 

“  It  ought  to  be  to  me,  I  suppose,”  said  St.  Clare,  stopping 
thoughtfully.  “  I  was  reading  to  Tom,  this  afternoon,  that 
chapter  in  Matthew  that  gives  an  account  of  it,  and  I  have 
been  quite  struck  with  it.  One  should  have  expected  some 
terrible  enormities  charged  to  those  who  are  excluded  from 
heaven,  as  the  reason;  but  no, — they  are  condemned  for 
not  doing  positive  good,  as  if  that  included  every  possible 
harm.” 

“  Perhaps,”  said  Miss  Ophelia,  “  it  is  impossible  for  a 
person  who  does  no  good  not  to  do  harm.” 

“  And  what,”  said  St.  Clare,  speaking  abstractedly,  but 
with  ./Jeep  feeling,  “what  shall  be  said  of  one  whose  own 
heart,  whose  education,  and  the  wants  of  society  have  called 
in  vain  to  some  noble  purpose;  who  has  floated  on,  a  dreamy, 
neutral  spectator  of  the  struggles,  agonies,  and  wrongs  of 
man,  when  he  should  have  been  a  worker?  ” 

“  I  should  say,”  said  Miss  Ophelia,  “  that  he  ought  to  re¬ 
pent,  and  begin  now.” 

“Always  practical  and  to  the  point!”  said  St.  Clare,  his 
face  breaking  out  into  a  smile.  “  You  never  leave  me  any 
time  for  general  reflections,  cousin;  you  always  bring  me 
short  up  against  the  actual  present;  you  have  a  kind  of  eter¬ 
nal  now  always  in  your  mind.” 

“  Now  is  all  the  time  I  have  anything  to  do  with,”  said 
Miss  Ophelia. 

“Dear  little  Eva, — poor  child!  ”  said  St.  Clare,  “she  had 
set  her  little  simple  soul  on  a  good  work  for  me.” 

It  was  the  first  time  since  Eva’s  death  that  he  had  ever 
said  as  many  words  as  these  of  her,  and  he  spoke  now  evi¬ 
dently  repressing  very  strong  feeling. 

“  My  view  of  Christianity  is  such,”  he  added,  “  that  I  think 


a  is 


UNCLE  TOM’S  CABIN”,  OK, 


no  man  can  consistently  profess  it  without  throwing  tire 
whole  weight  of  his  being  against  this  monstrous  system  of 
injustice  that  lies  at  the  foundation  of  all  our  society;  and, 
if  need  be,  sacrificing  himself  in  the  battle.  That  is,  I  mean 
that  I  could  not  be  a  Christian  otherwise,  though  I  have 
certainly  had  intercourse  with  a  great  many  enlightened  and 
Christian  people  who  did  no  such  thing;  and  I  confess  that 
the  apathy  of  religious  people  on  this  subject,  their  want 
of  perception  of  wrongs  that  filled  me  with  horror,  have 
engendered  in  me  more  skepticism  than  any  other  thing.” 

“  If  you  knew  all  this,”  said  Miss  Ophelia,  “  why  didn’t 
you  do  it?” 

“  Oh,  because  I  have  had  only  that  kind  of  benevolence 
which  consists  in  lying  on  a  sofa  and  cursing  the  church  and 
clergy  for  not  being  martyrs  and  confessors.  One  can  see, 
you  know,  very  easily,  how  others  ought  to  be  martyrs.” 

“  Well,  are  you  going  to  do  differently  now?”  said  Miss 
Ophelia. 

“  God  only  knows  the  future,”  said  St.  Clare.  “  I  am 
braver  than  I  was,  because  I  have  lost  all;  and  he  who  has 
nothing  to  lose  can  afford  all  risk.” 

“■  And  what  are  you  going  to  do?  ” 

“  My  duty,  I  hope,  to  the  poor  and  lowly,  as  fast  as  I  find 
it  out,”  said  St.  Clare,  “  beginning  with  my  own  servants, 
for  whom  I  have  yet  done  nothing,  and,  perhaps,  at  some 
future  day  it  may  appear  that  I  can  do  something  for  a  whole 
class;  something  to  save  my  country  from  the  disgrace  of 
that  false  position  in  which  she  now  stands  before  all  civ¬ 
ilized  nations.” 

“  Do  you  suppose  it  possible  that  a  nation  ever  will  volun¬ 
tarily  emancipate?”  said  Miss  Ophelia. 

“  I  don’t  know,”  said  St.  Clare.  “  This  is  a  day  of  great 
deeds.  Heroism  and  disinterestedness  are  rising  up,  here 
and  there,  in  the  earth.  The  Hungarian  nobles  set  free 
millions  of  serfs,  at  an  immense  pecuniary  loss;  and,  per¬ 
haps,  among  us  may  be  found  generous  spirits  who  do  not 
estimate  honor  and  justice  by  dollars  and  cents.” 
v  “  I  hardly  think  so,”  said  Miss  Ophelia. 

“  But  suppose  we  should  rise  up  to-morrow  and  emanci¬ 
pate,  who  would  educate  these  millions,  and  teach  them  how 
to  use  their  freedom?  They  never  would  rise  to  do  much 
among  us.  The  fact  is,  we  are  too  lazy  and  unpractical,  our¬ 
selves,  ever  to  give  them  much  of  an  idea  of  that  industry 


LIFK  AMONG  THE  LOV7TY. 


Cl® 


and  energy  which  is  necessary  to  form  them  into  men.  They 
will  have  to  go  North,  where  labor  is  the  fashion, — the  uni¬ 
versal  custom;  and  tell  me,  now,  is  there  enough  Christian 
philanthropy,  among  your  Northern  States,  to  bear  with  the 
process  of  their  education  and  elevation?  You  send  thou¬ 
sands  of  dollars  to  foreign  missions;  but  could  you  endure 
to  have  the  heathen  sent  into  your  towns  and  villages,  and 
give  your  time,  and  thoughts,  and  money  to  raise  them  to  the 
Christian  standard?  That’s  what  I  want  to  know.  If  we 
emancipate,  are  you  willing  to  educate?  How  many  families, 
in  your  town,  would  take  in  a  negro  man  and  woman,  teach 
them,  bear  with  them,  and  seek  to  make  them  Christians? 
How  many  merchants  would  take  Adolph,  if  I  wanted  to 
make  him  a  clerk;  or  mechanics,  if  I  wanted  him  taught  a 
trade?  If  I  wanted  to  put  Jane  and  Rosa  to  a  school,  how 
many  schools  are  there  in  the  Northern  States  that  would 
take  them  in?  how  many  families  that  would  board  them? 
and  yet  they  are  as  white  as  many  a  woman,  North  or  South. 
You  see,  cousin,  I  want  justice  done  us.  We  are  in  a  bad 
position.  We  are  the  more  obvious  oppressors  of  the  negro; 
but  the  unchristian  prejudice  of  the  North  is  an  oppressor 
almost  equally  severe.” 

“  W ell,  cousin,  I  know  it  is  so,”  said  Miss  Ophelia, — “  I 
know  it  was  so  with  me,  till  I  saw  that  it  was  my  duty  to 
overcome  it;  but  I  trust  I  have  overcome  it;  and  I  know 
there  are  many  good  people  at  the  North,  who  in  this  matter 
need  only  to  be  taught  what  their  duty  is,  to  do  it.  It  would 
certainly  be  a  greater  self-denial  to  receive  heathen  among 
us,  than  to  send  missionaries  to  them;  but  I  think  we  would 
do  it.” 

“  You  would,  I  know,”  said  St.  Clare.  “  I’d  like  to  see 
anything  you  wouldn’t  do,  if  you  thought  it  your  duty!  ” 

“Well,  I’m  not  uncommonly  good,”  said  Miss  Ophelia. 
“  Others  would,  if  they  saw  things  as  I  do.  I  intend  to  take 
Topsy  home,  when  I  go.  I  suppose  our  folks  will  wonder, 
at  first;  but  I  think  they  will  be  brought  to  see  as  I  do.  Be¬ 
sides  I  know  there  are  many  people  at  the  North  who  do 
exactly  what  you  said.” 

“  Yes,  but  they  are  a  minority;  and,  if  we  should  begin 
to  emancipate  to  any  extent,  we  should  soon  hear  from  you/* 

Miss  Ophelia  did  not  reply.  There  was  a  pause  of  some 
moments;  and  St.  Clare’s  countenance  was  overcast  by  a  §ad* 
dreamy  expression. 


S20  UNCLE  tom’s  cabin;  OB* 

a  I  dorrt  know  what  makes  me  think  of  my  mother  so 
much  to-night*”  he  said.  “  I  have  a  strange  kind  of  feeling* 
as  if  she  were  near  me.  I  keep  thinking  of  things  she  used 
to  say.  Strange*  what  brings  these  past  things  so  vividly 
back  to  us  sometimes!  ” 

St.  Clare  walked  up  and  down  the  room  for  some  minutes 
more*  and  then  said: 

“  I  believe  I’ll  go  down  street  a  few  moments*  and  hear 
the  news  to-night.” 

He  took  his  hat  and  passed  out. 

Tom  followed  him  to  the  passage*  out  of  the  court*  and 
asked  if  he  should  attend  him. 

No*  my  boy*”  said  St.  Clare*  “I  shall  be  back  in  an 
hour.” 

Tom  sat  down  in  the  veranda.  It  was  a  beautiful  moon¬ 
light  evening*  and  he  sat  watching  the  rising  and  falling 
spray  of  the  fountain  and  listening  to  its  murmur.  Tom 
thought  of  his  home*  and  that  he  should  soon  be  a  free  man, 
and  able  to  return  to  it  at  will.  He  thought  how  he  should 
work  to  buy  his  wife  and  boys.  He  felt  the  muscles  of  his 
brawny  arms  with  a  sort  of  joy*  as  he  thought  they  would 
soon  belong  to  himself*  and  how  much  they  could  do  to  work 
out  the  freedom  of  his  family.  Then  he  thought  of  his  noble 
young  master*  and*  ever  second  to  that*  came  the  habitual 
prayer  that  he  had  always  offered  for  him;  and  then  his 
thoughts  passed  on  to  the  beautiful  Eva*  whom  he  now 
thought  of  among  the  angels;  and  he  thought  till  he  almost 
fancied  that  that  bright  face  and  golden  hair  were  looking 
upon  him  out  of  the  spray  of  the  fountain.  And*  so  musing* 
he  fell  asleep*  and  dreamed  he  saw  her  coming  bounding 
toward  him*  just  as  she  used  to  come*  with  a  wreath  of  jes¬ 
samine  in  her  hair*  her  cheeks  bright*  and  her  eyes  radiant 
with  delight;  but  as  he  looked  she  seemed  to  rise  from  the 
ground;  her  cheeks  wore  a  paler  hue* — her  eyes  had  a  deep* 
divine  radiance*  a  golden  halo  seemed  around  her  head*— 
and  she  vanished  from  his  sight;  and  Tom  was  awakened 
by  a  loud  knocking  and  a  sound  of  many  voices  at  the 
gate. 

He  hastened  to  undo  it;  and*  with  smothered  voices  and 
heavy  tread,  came  several  men*  bringing  a  body  wrapped  in 
a  cloak*  and  lying  on  a  shutter.  The  light  of  the  lamp  fell 
full  on  the  face;  and  Tom  gave  a  wild  cry  of  amazement 
and  despair  that  rang  through  all  the  galleries^  as  the  mens 


LIFE  AMONG  'jl'HIS  LOWLY. 


321 


advanced  with  their  burden  to  the  open  parlor  door,  where 
Miss  Ophelia  still  sat  knitting. 

St.  Clare  had  turned  into  a  cafe  to  look  over  an  evening 
paper.  As  he  was  reading,  an  affray  arose  between  two 
gentlemen  in  the  room,  who  were  both  partially  intoxicated. 
St.  Clare  and  one  or  twro  others  made  an  effort  to  separate 
them,  and  St.  Clare  received  a  fatal  stab  in  the  side  with  $ 
bowie-knife,  which  he  was  attempting  to  wrest  from  one  of 
them. 

The  house  was  full  of  cries  and  lamentations,  shrieks  and 
screams;  servants  frantically  tearing  their  hair,  throwing 
themselves  on  the  ground,  or  running  distractedly  about, 
lamenting.  Tom  and  Miss  Ophelia  alone  seemed  to  have 
any  presence  of  mind;  for  Marie  was  in  strong  hysteric  con¬ 
vulsions.  At  Miss  Ophelia’s  direction  one  of  the  lounges  in 
the  parlor  was  hastily  prepared,  and  the  bleeding  form  laid 
upon  it.  St.  Clare  had  fainted  through  pain  and  loss  of 
blood;  but  as  Miss  Ophelia  applied  restoratives  he  revived, 
opened  his  eyes,  looked  fixedly  on  them,  looked  earnestly 
around  the  room,  his  eyes  traveling  wistfully  over  every  ob¬ 
ject,  and  finally  they  rested  on  his  mother’s  picture. 

The  physician  now  arrived,  and  made  his  examination. 
It  was  evident,  from  the  expression  of  his  face,  that  there 
was  no  hope;  but  he  applied  himself  to  dressing  the  wound, 
and  he  and  Miss  Ophelia  and  Tom  proceeded  composedly 
with  this  work,  amid  the  lamentations  and  sobs  and  cries  of 
the  affrighted  servants,  who  had  clustered  about  the  doors 
and  windows  of  the  veranda. 

“  Now,”  said  the  physician,  “  we  must  turn  all  these  crea¬ 
tures  out;  all  depends  on  his  being  kept  quiet.” 

St.  Clare  opened  his  eyes  and  looked  fixedly  on  the  dis¬ 
tressed  beings  whom  Miss  Ophelia  and  the  doctor  were  try¬ 
ing  to  urge  from  the  apartment.  “Poor  creatures!”  he 
said,  and  an  expression  of  bitter  self-reproach  passed  over 
bis  face.  Adolph  absolutely  refused  to  go.  Terror  had  de¬ 
prived  him  of  all  presence  of  mind;  he  threw  himself  along 
on  the  floor,  and  nothing  could  persuade  him  to  rise.  The 
rest  yielded  to  Miss  Ophelia’s  urgent  representations,  that 
their  master’s  safety  depended  on  their  stillness  and  obedience* 

St.  Clare  could  say  but  little;  he  lay  with  his  eyes  shut, 
but  it  was  evident  that  he  wrestled  with  bitter  thoughts. 
After  a  while  he  laid  his  hand  on  Tom’s,  who  was  kneeling 
beside  him,  and  said,  “  Tom,  poor  fellow!  ” 


822 


UNCLE  tom’s  cabin  ;  OB, 

“What,  mas’r?”  said  Tom  earnestly. 

“  I  am  dying!  ”  said  St.  Clare,  pressing  his  hand;  “  pray!  * 

“  If  you  would  like  a  clergyman - -”  said  the  physician. 

St.  Clare  hastily  shook  his  head,  and  said  again  to  Tom 
more  earnestly,  “  Pray!  ” 

And  Tom  did  pray,  with  all  his  mind  and  strength,  for  the 
soul  that  was  passing, — the  soul  that  seemed  looking  so  stead¬ 
ily  and  mournfully  from  those  large  melancholy  blue  eyes. 
It  was  literally  prayer  offered  with  strong  crying  and  tears. 

When  Tom  ceased  to  speak  St.  Clare  reached  out  and  took 
his  hand,  looking  earnestly  at  him,  but  saying  nothing.  He 
closed  his  eyes,  but  still  retained  his  hold;  for  in  the  gates  of 
eternity  the  black  hand  and  the  white  hold  each  other  with 
an  equal  clasp.  He  murmured  softly  to  himself  at  broken 
intervals: 

t#  Recordare  Jesu  pie— 

Ne  me  perdas — ilia  die 
Quserens  me— sedisti  lass  us/’ 

It  was  evident  that  the  words  he  had  been  singing  that 
evening  were  passing  through  his  mind, — words  of  entreaty 
addressed  to  Infinite  Pity.  His  lips  moved  at  intervals,  as 
parts  of  the  hymn  fell  brokenly  from  them. 

“  His  mind  is  wandering,”  said  the  doctor. 

“Ho!  it  is  coming  home  at  last!”  said  St.  Clare  ener¬ 
getically;  “at  last!  at  last!  ” 

The  effort  of  speaking  exhausted  him.  The  sinking  pale¬ 
ness  of  death  fell  on  him;  but  with  it  there  fell,  as  if  shed 
from  the  wings  of  some  pitying  spirit,  a  beautiful  expression 
of  peace,  like  that  of  a  wearied  child  who  sleeps. 

So  he  lay  for  a  few  moments.  They  saw  that  the  mighty 
hand  was  on  him.  Just  before  the  spirit  parted  he  opened 
his  eyes  with  a  sudden  light,  as  of  joy  and  recognition,  and 
said  “  Mother!  ”  and  then  he  was  gone. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

THE  UNPROTECTED. 

We  often  hear  of  the  distress  of  the  negro  servants  on 
the  loss  of  a  kind  master;  and  with  good  reason,  for  no  crea¬ 
ture  on  God’s  earth  is  left  more  utterly  unprotected  and 

than  the  slave  in  these  circumstances 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY.  8 £-3 

The  child  who  has  lost  a  father  has  still  the  protection  of 
friends,  and  of  the  law;  he  is  something,  and  can  do  some¬ 
thing, — has  acknowledged  rights  and  positions;  the  slave  has 
none.  The  law  regards  him,  in  every  respect,  as  devoid  of 
rights  as  a  bale  of  merchandise.  The  only  possible  acknowl¬ 
edgment  of  any  of  the  longings  and  wants  of  a  human  and 
immortal  creature  which  is  given  to  him,  comes  to  him 
through  the  sovereign  and  irresponsible  will  of  his  master; 
and  when  that  master  is  stricken  down,  nothing  remains. 

The  number  of  those  men  who  know  how  to  use  wholly  ir¬ 
responsible  power  humanely  and  generously  is  small.  Every¬ 
body  knows  this,  and  the  slave  knows  it  best  of  all;  so  that  he 
feels  that  there  are  ten  chances  of  his  finding  an  abusive 
and  tyrannical  master  to  one  of  his  finding  a  considerate 
and  kind  one.  Therefore  is  it  that  the  wail  over  a  kind 
master  is  loud  and  long,  as  well  it  may  be. 

When  St.  Clare  breathed  his  last,  terror  and  consternation 
took  hold  of  all  his  household.  He  had  been  stricken  down 
so  in  a  moment,  in  the  flov/er  and  strength  of  his  youth! 
Every  room  and  gallery  of  the  house  resounded  with  sobs 
and  shrieks  of  despair. 

Marie,  whose  nervous  system  had  been  enervated  by  a 
constant  course  of  self-indulgence,  had  nothing  to  support 
the  terror  of  the  shock,  and,  at  the  time  her  husband 
breathed  his  last,  was  passing  from  one  fainting  fit  to 
another;  and  he  to  whom  she  had  been  joined  in  the  mys¬ 
terious  tie  of  marriage  passed  from  her  forever,  without  the 
possibility  of  even  a  parting  word. 

Miss  Ophelia,  with  characteristic  strength  and  self-con¬ 
trol,  had  remained  with  her  kinsman  to  the  last,— all  eye, 
all  ear,  all  attention;  doing  everything  of  the  little  that  could 
be  done,  and  joining  with  her  whole  soul  in  the  tender  and 
impassioned  prayers  which  the  poor  slave  had  poured  forth 
for  the  soul  of  his  dying  master. 

When  they  were  arranging  him  for  his  last  rest  they  found 
upon  his  bosom  a  small,  plain  miniature  case,  opening  with 
a  spring.  It  was  the  miniature  of  a  noble  and  beautiful  fe¬ 
male  face;  and  on  the  reverse,  under  a  crystal,  a  lock  of  dark 
hair.  They  laid  them  back  on  the  lifeless  breast, — dust  to 
dust, — poor,  mournful  relics  of  early  dreams,  which  once 
made  that  cold  heart  beat  so  warmly! 

Tom's  whole  soul  was  filled  with  thoughts  of  eternity:  and 
while  he  ministered  around  the  lifeless  clay  he  did  not  onc£ 


324 


UNCLE  tom’s  CABIN  ;  OB, 

think  that  the  sudden  stroke  had  left  him  in  hopeless  slavery. 
He  felt  at  peace  about  his  master;  for  in  that  hour  when  he 
had  poured  forth  his  prayer  into  the  bosom  of  his  Father, 
he  had  found  an  answer  of  quietness  and  assurance  springing 
up  within  himself.  In  the  depths  of  his  own  affectionate  na¬ 
ture  he  felt  able  to  perceive  something  of  the  fullness  of 
Divine  love;  for  an  old  oracle  hath  thus  written, — “  He  that 
dwelleth  in  love,  dwelleth  in  God,  and  God  in  him/’  Tom 
hoped  and  trusted,  and  was  at  peace. 

But  the  funeral  passed,  with  all  its  pageant  of  black  crape, 
and  prayers,  and  solemn  faces;  and  back  rolled  the  cool, 
muddy  waves  of  everyday  life;  and  up  came  the  everlasting 
hard  inquiry  of  “What  is  to  be  done  next?” 

It  rose  to  the  mind  of  Marie,  as  dressed  in  loose  morning- 
robes,  and  surrounded  by  anxious  servants,  she  sat  up  in  a 
great  easy-chair,  and  inspected  samples  of  crape  and  bomba¬ 
zine.  It  rose  to  Miss  Ophelia,  who  began  to  turn  her 
thoughts  toward  her  Northern  home.  It  rose  in  silent  ter¬ 
rors  to  the  minds  of  the  servants,  who  well  knew  the  unfeel¬ 
ing  and  tyrannical  character  of  the  mistress  in  whose  hands 
they  were  left.  All  knew  very  well  that  the  indulgences 
which  had  been  accorded  to  them  were  not  from  their  mis¬ 
tress,  but  from  their  master;  and  that,  now  he  was  gone, 
there  would  be  no  screen  between  them  and  every  tyrannous 
infliction  which  a  temper  soured  by  affliction  might  devise. 

It  was  about  a  fortnight  after  the  funeral  that  Miss 
Ophelia,  busied  one  day  in  her  apartment,  heard  a  gentle  tap 
at  the  door.  She  opened  it  and  there  stood  Bosa,  the  pretty 
young  quadroon,  whom  we  have  before  often  noticed,  her 
hair  in  disorder,  and  her  eyes  swelled  with  crying. 

“  Oh,  Miss  Feely,”  she  said,  falling  on  her  knees,  and  catch¬ 
ing  the  skirt  of  her  dress,  “  do ,  do,  go  to  Miss  Marie  for  me! 
do  plead  for  me!  She’s  goin’  to  send  me  out  to  be  whipped, 
— look  there!  ”  And  she  handed  to  Miss  Ophelia  a  paper. 

It  was  an  order,  written  in  Marie’s  delicate  Italian  hand, 
to  the  master  of  a  whipping  establishment,  to  give  the  bearer 
fifteen  lashes. 

“  What  have  you  been  doing?  ”  said  Miss  Ophelia. 

“  You  know,  Miss  Feely,  I’ve  got  such  a  had  temper;  it’s 
very  bad  of  me.  I  was  trying  on  Miss  Marie’s  dress,  and  she 
slapped  my  face;  and  I  spoke  out  before  I  thought,  and  was 
saucy,  and  she  said  that  she’d  bring  me  down,  and  ha yu  we 
know,  once  for  all,  that  I  wasn’t  going  to  be  so  toppin^uiA 


LXFI£  AMONG  THE  LOWLY, 


liad  been;  and  she  wrote  this,  and  says  I  shall  carry  it.  I’d 
rather  she’d  kill  me,  right  out.” 

Miss  Ophelia  stood  considering,  with  the  paper  in  her 
hand. 

“  You  see.  Miss  Feely,”  said  Eosa,  “  I  don’t  mind  the  whip¬ 
ping  so  much,  if  Miss  Marie  or  you  was  to  do  it;  but  to  be 
sent  to  a  man!  and  such  a  horrible  man,— the  shame  of  it, 
Miss  Feelv!  ” 

Miss  Ophelia  well  knew  that  it  was  the  universal  custom 
to  send  women  and  young  girls  to  whipping-houses,  to  the 
hands  of  the  lowest  of  men, — men  vile  enough  to  make  this 
their  profession,— there  to  be  subjected  to  brutal  exposure 
and  shameful  correction.  She  had  known  it  before;  but  hith¬ 
erto  she  had  never  realized  it  till  she  saw  the  slender  form  of 
Eosa  almost  convulsed  with  distress.  All  the  honest  blood 
of  womanhood,  the  strong.  New  England  blood  of  liberty, 
flushed  to  her  cheeks,  and  throbbed  bitterly  in  her  indignant 
heart;  but  with  habitual  prudence  and  self-control  she  mas¬ 
tered  herself,  and,  crushing  the  paper  firmly  in  her  hand, 
she  merely  said  to  Eosa: 

“  Sit  down,  child,  while  I  go  to  your  mistress. 

“  Shameful!  monstrous!  outrageous,”  she  said  to  herself, 
as  she  was  crossing  the  parlor. 

She  found  Marie  sitting  up  in  her  easy-chair,  with  Mammy 
standing  by  her,  combing  her  hair,  Jane  sat  on  the  ground 
before  her,  busy  in  chafing  her  feet. 

“  How  do  you  find  yourself  to-day?  ”  said  Miss  Ophelia. 

A  deep  sigh  and  a  closing  of  the  eyes  was  the  only  reply 
for  a  moment;  and  then  Marie  answered:  “  Oh,  I  don’t  know, 
cousin;  I  suppose  I’m  as  well  as  I  ever  shall  be!  ”  and  Marie 
wiped  her  eyes  with  a  cambric  handkerchief,  bordered  with 
an  inch  deep  of  black. 

“  I  came,”  said  Miss  Ophelia,  with  a  short,  dry  cough, 
such  as  commonly  introduces  a  difficult  subject,— “  I  came  to 
speak  with  you  about  poor  Eosa.” 

Marie’s  eyes  were  open  wide  enough  now,  and  a  flush  rose 
to  her  sallow  cheeks,  as  she  answered  sharply: 

“Well,  what  about  her?” 

“  She  is  very  sorry  for  her  fault.” 

“  She  is,  is  she?  She’ll  be  sorrier  before  I’ve  done  with 
her!  I’ve  endured  that  child’s  impudence  long  enough; 
and  now  I’ll  bring  her  down, — I’ll  make  her  lie  in  the 

dust!  ” 


326 


UNCLE  TOM’S  .'iABIN  ;  OB, 


“  But  could  not  you  punish  her  in  some  other  way,— som© 
way  that  would  be  less  shameful?” 

“  I  mean  to  shame  her;  that’s  just  what  I  want.  She  has 
all  her  life  presumed  on  her  delicacy,  and  her  g^od  looks, 
and  her  ladylike  airs,  till  she  forgets  who  she  is;— and  Fll 
give  her  one  lesson  that  will  bring  her  down,  I  fancy!  ” 

“  But,  cousin,  consider  that  if  you  destroy  delicacy  and  a 
sense  of  shame  in  a  young  girl,  you  deprave  her  very  fast.” 

“  Delicacy!  ”  said  Marie,  with  a  scornful  laugh,— “  a  fine 
word  for  such  as  she!  HI  teach  her,  with  all  her  airs,  that 
she’s  no  better  than  the  raggedest  black  wench  that  walks 
the  streets!  Shell  take  no  more  airs  with  me!  ” 

“  You  will  answer  to  God  for  such  cruelty!  ”  said  Miss 
Ophelia,  with  energy. 

“  Cruelty, — I’d  like  to  know  what  the  cruelty  is!  I  wrote 
orders  for  only  fifteen  lashes,  and  told  him  to  put  them  on 
lightly.  I’m  sure  there’s  no  cruelty  there!  ” 

“No  cruelty!”  said  Miss  Ophelia.  “I’m  sure  any  girl 
might  rather  he  killed  outright!  ” 

“  It  might  seem  so  to  anybody  with  your  feelings;  but 
all  these  creatures  get  used  to  it;  it’s  the  only  way  they  can 
be  kept  in  order.  Once  let  them  feel  that  they  are  to  take 
any  airs  about  delicacy,  and  all  that,  and  they’ll  run  all  over 
you,  just  as  my  servants  always  have.  I’ve  begun  now  to 
bring  them  under;  and  I’ll  have  them  all  to  know  that  I’ll 
send  one  out  to  be  whipped  as  soon  as  another,  if  th ev  4on’t 
mind  themselves !  ”  said  Marie,  looking  around  her  decidedly. 

Jane  hung  her  head  and  cowered  at  this,  for  she  felt  as 
if  it  was  particularly  directed  to  her.  Miss  Ophelia  sat  for 
a  moment  as  if  she  had  swallowed  some  explosive  mixture, 
and  were  ready  to  burst.  Then,  recollecting  the  utter  use¬ 
lessness  of  contention  with  such  a  nature,  she  shut  her  lips 
resolutely,  gathered  herself  up,  and  walked  out  of  the  room. 

It  was  hard  to  go  back  and  tell  Rosa  that  she  could  do 
nothing  for  her;  and,  shortly  after,  one  of  the  man-servants 
came  to  say  that  her  mistress  had  ordered  him  to  take  Rosa 
with  him  to  the  whipping-house,  whither  she  was  hurried, 
in  spite  of  her  tears  and  entreaties. 

A  few  days  after  Tom  was  standing  musing  by  the  bal¬ 
conies  when  he  was  joined  by  Adolph,  who,  since  the  death 
of  his  master,  had  been  entirely  crestfallen  and  disconsolate. 
Adolph  knew  that  he  had  always  been  an  object  of  dislike  to 
Marie;  but  while  his  master  lived  he  had  paid  but  little  at- 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY* 


221 

tention  to  it.  Now  that  he  was  gone  he  had  moved  about 
in  daiiy  dread  and  trembling,  not  knowing  what  might  be¬ 
fall  him  next.  Marie  had  held  several  consultations  with 
her  lawyer;  after  communicating  with  St.  Clare’s  brother, 
it  was  determined  to  sell  the  place  and  all  the  serve  its  except 
her  own  personal  property,  and  these  she  intended  to  take 
with  her  and  go  back  to  her  father’s  plantation. 

“  Do  ye  know,  Tom,  that  we’ve  all  got  to  be  sold?  ”  said 
Adolph. 

“How  did  you  hear  that?”  said  Tom. 

“  I  hid  myself  behind  the  curtains  when  missis  was  talking 
with  the  lawyer.  In  a  few  days  we  shall  all  be  sent  off  to 
auction,  Tom.” 

“The  Lord’s  will  be  done!”  said  Tom,  folding  his  arms 
and  sighing  heavily. 

We’ll  never  get  another  such  a  master,”  said  Adolph  ap¬ 
prehensively;  “but  I’d  rather  be  sold  than  take  my  chance 
under  missis.” 

Tom  turned  away;  his  heart  was  full.  The  hope  of  liberty, 
the  thought  of  distant  wife  and  children,  rose  up  before  his 
patient  soul,  as  to  the  mariner,  shipwrecked  almost  in  port, 
rises  the  vision  of  the  church-spire  and  loving  roofs  of  his 
native  village,  seen  over  the  top  of  some  black  wave  only 
for  tone  last  farewell.  He  drew  his  arms  tightly  over  his 
bosom,  and  choked  back  the  bitter  tears,  and  tried  to  pray. 
The  poor  old  soul  had  such  a  singular,  unaccountable  preju¬ 
dice  in  favor  of  liberty  that  it  was  a  hard  wrench  for  him; 
and  the  more  he  said  “  Thy  will  be  done,”  the  worse  he  felt. 

He  sought  Miss  Ophelia,  who,  ever  since  Eva’s  death,  had 
treated  him  with  marked  and  respectful  kindness. 

“  Miss  Feely,”  he  said,  “  Mas’r  St.  Clare  promised  me  my 
freedom.  He  told  me  that  he  had  begun  to  take  it  out  for 
me;  and  now,  perhaps,  if  Miss  Feely  would  be  good  enough 
to  speak  about  it  to  missis,  she  would  feel  like  goin’  on  with 
it,  as  it  was  Mas’r  St.  Clare’s  wish.” 

“  I’ll  speak  for  you,  Tom,  and  do  my  best,”  said  Miss 
Ophelia;  “but,  if  it  depends  on  Mrs.  St.  Clare,  I  can’t  hope 
much  for  you;  nevertheless,  I  will  try.” 

This  incident  occurred  a  few  days  after  that  of  Rosa, 
while  Miss  Ophelia  was  busied  in  preparations  to  return 
North. 

Seriously  reflecting  within  herself,  she  considered  that 
perhaps  *he  had  shown  too  hasty  a  warmth  of  language  in 


328 


UNCLE  TOM’S  CABIN  |  OB, 

her  former  interview  with  Marie;  and  she  resolved  that  she 
would  now  endeavor  to  moderate  her  zea],  and  to  be  as  con¬ 
ciliatory  as  possible.  So  the  good  soul  gathered  herself  up, 
and,  taking  her  knitting,  resolved  to  go  into  Marie’s  room, 
be  as  agreeable  as  possible,  and  negotiate  Tom’s  case  with  all 
the  diplomatic  skill  of  which  she  was  mistress. 

She  found  Marie  reclining  at  length  upon  a  lounge,  sup¬ 
porting  herself  on  one  elbow  by  pillows,  while  Jane,  who 
had  been  out  shopping,  was  displaying  before  her  certain 
samples  of  thin  black  stuffs. 

"  That  will  do,”  said  Marie,  selecting  one;  "  only  I’m  not 
sure  about  its  being  properly  mourning.” 

"  Laws,  missis,”  said  Jane  volubly,  "Mrs.  General  Der- 
bennon  wore  just  this  very  thing  after  the  general  died  last 
summer;  it  makes  up  lovely!  ” 

"What  do  you  think?”  said  Marie  to  Miss  Ophelia. 

"  It’s  a  matter  of  custom,  I  suppose,”  said  Miss  Ophelia. 
"You  can  judge  about  it  better  than  I.” 

"  The  fact  is,”  said  Marie,  "  that  I  haven’t  a  dress  in.  the 
world  that  I  can  wear;  and,  as  I  am  going  to  break  up  the  es¬ 
tablishment,  and  go  off,  next  week,  I  must  decide  upon  some¬ 
thing.” 

"  Are  you  going  so  soon?  ” 

"Yes.  St.  Clare’s  brother  has  written,  and  he  and.  the 
lawyer  think  that  the  servants  and  furniture  had  better  be 
put  up  at  auction,  and  the  place  left  with  our  lawyer.” 

"  There’s  one  thing  I  wanted  to  speak  with  you  about,” 
said  Miss  Ophelia.  "  Augustine  promised  Tom  his  liberty, 
and  began  the  legal  forms  necessary  to  it.  I  hope  you  will 
;use  your  influence  to  have  it  perfected.” 

"  Indeed,  I  shall  do  no  such  thing!  ”  said  Marie  sharply. 
"  Tom  is  one  of  the  most  valuable  servants  on  the  place, — 
it  couldn’t  be  afforded,  anyway.  Besides,  what  does  he  want 
of  liberty?  He’s  a  great  deal  better  off  as  he  is.” 

"  But  he  does  desire  it  very  earnestly,  and  his  master 
promised  it,”  said  Miss  Ophelia. 

"I  dare  say  he  does  want  it,”  said  Marie:  "they  all  want 
it,  just  because  they  are  a  discontented  set,— always  wanting 
what  they  haven’t  got.  How  I’m  principled  against  emanci¬ 
pating  in  any  case.  Keep  a  negro  under  the  care  of  a  mas¬ 
ter,  and  he  does  well  enough,  and  is  respectable,  but  set 
them  free,  and  they  get  lazy,  and  won’t  work,  and  take  to 
drinking,  and  go  all  down  to  be  mean,  worthless  fellows.  I’ve 


LIFE  AMOSTG  THE  LOWLY.  SM 

men  it  tried  hundreds  of  times.  It’s  no  favor  to  set  them 
free.? 

But  Tom  is  so  steady,  industrious,  and  pious,” 

“  Oh,  you  needn’t  tell  me!  I’ve  seen  a  hundred  like  him. 
He’ll  clo  very  well  as  long  as  he’s  taken  care  of, —that’s  all.” 

6i  But,  then,  consider,”  said  Miss  Ophelia,  “  when  you  set 
him  up  for  sale,  the  chances  of  his  getting  a  had  master.” 

“  Oh,  that’s  all  humbug!  ”  said  Marie.  “  It  isn’t  one  time 
in  a  hundred  that  a  good  fellow  gets  a  bad  master;  most 
masters  are  good,  for  all  the  talk  that  is  made.  I’ve  lived 
and  grown  up  here  in  the  South,  and  I  never  yet  was  ac¬ 
quainted  with  a  master  that  didn’t  treat  his  servants  well, — * 
quite  as  well  as  is  -worth  wdiile.  I  don’t  feel  any  fears  on  that 
head” 

“  Well,”  said  Miss  Ophelia  energetically,  “  I  know  it  was 
one  of  the  last  wishes  of  your  husband  that  Tom  should 
have  his  liberty;  it  was  one  of  the  promises  that  he  made  to 
dear  little  Eva  on  her  death-bed,  and  I  should  not  think  you 
would  feel  at  liberty  to  disregard  it.” 

Marie  had  her  face  covered  with  her  handkerchief  ai(  this 
appeal,  and  began  sobbing  and  using  her  smelling-bottle  with 
great  vehemence, 

“  Everybody  goes  against  me!  ”  she  said.  “  Everybody  is 
so  inconsiderate!  I  shouldn’t  have  expected  that  you  would 
bring  up  all  these  remembrances  of  my  troubles  to  me,— 
it’s  so  inconsiderate!  But  nobody  ever  does  consider,— my 
trials  are  so  peculiar!  It’s  so  hard  that  when  I  had  only 
one  daughter  she  should  have  been  taken! — and  when  I  had 
a  husband  that  just  exactly  suited  me, — and  I’m  so  hard  to 
be  suited! — be  should  be  taken!  And  you  seem  to  have  so 
little  feeling  for  me,  and  keep  bringing  it  up  to  rne  so  care¬ 
lessly, — when  you  know  how  it  overcomes  me!  I  suppose 
you  mean  well;  but  it  is  very  inconsiderate, — very!  ”  And 
Marie  sobbed,  and  gasped  for  breath,  and  called  Mammy  to 
open  the  window,  and  to  bring  her  the  camphor  bottle,  and 
bathe  her  head,  and  unhook  her  dress.  And  in  the  gen¬ 
eral  confusion  that  ensued  Miss  Ophelia  made  her  escape  to 
her  apartment. 

She  saw  at  once  that  it  would  do  no  good  to  say  anything 
more;  for  Marie  had  an  indefinite  capacity  for  hj^steric  fits; 
and.  after  this,  whenever  her  husband’s  or  Eva’s  wishes  with 
regard  to  the  servants  were  alluded  to  she  always  found  it 
convenient  to  set  one  in  operation.  Miss  Ophelia,  therefore, 


880 


uncle  tom’s  cabin;  OS, 

did  the  next  best  thing  she  could  for  Tom,— she  wroi®  1 
letter  to  Mrs.  Shelby  for  him,  stating  his  troubles,  and  urging 
them  to  send  to  his  relief. 

The  next  day  Tom  and  Adolph  and  some  half  a  dozen 
other  servants  were  marched  down  to  a  slave  warehouse  to 
await  the  convenience  of  the  trader  who  was  going  to  make 
up  a  lot  for  auction. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

THE  SLAVE  WAREHOUSE. 

A  slave  warehouse!  Perhaps  some  of  my  readers  con¬ 
jure  up  horrible  visions  of  such  a  place.  They  fancy  some 
foul,  obscure  den,  some  horrible  “  Tartarus  informis ,  ingens , 
cui  lumen  ademptum  ”  But  no,  innocent  friend;  in  these 
days  men  have  learned  the  art  of  sinning  expertly  and  gen¬ 
teelly,  so  as  not  to  shock  the  eyes  and  senses  of  respectable 
society.  Human  property  is  high  in  the  market;  and  is, 
therefore,  well  fed,  well  cleaned,  tended,  and  looked  after, 
that  it  may  come  to  sale  sleek  and  strong  and  shining.  A 
slave  warehouse  in  Xew  Orleans  is  a  house  externally  not 
much  unlike  many  others,  kept  with  neatness;  and  where 
every  day  you  may  see  arranged,  under  a  sort  of  shed  along 
the  outside,  rows  of  men  and  women,  who  stand  there  as  a 
sign  of  the  property  sold  within. 

Then  you  shall  be  courteously  entreated  to  call  and  ex¬ 
amine,  and  shall  find  an  abundance  of  husbands,  wives, 
brothers,  sisters,  fathers,  mothers,  and  young  children  to 
be  “  sold  separately,  or  in  lots,  to  suit  the  convenience  of  the 
purchaser  ”  ;  and  that  soul  immortal,  once  bought  with  blood 
and  anguish  by  the  Son  of  God,  vdien  the  earth  shook,  and 
the  rocks  were  rent,  and  the  graves  were  opened,  can  be  sold, 
leased,  mortgaged,  exchanged  for  groceries  or  dry  goods,  to 
suit  the  phases  of  trade  or  the  fancy  of  the  purchaser. 

It  was  a  day  or  two  after  the  conversation  between  Marie 
and  Miss  Ophelia  that  Tom,  Adolph,  and  about  half  a  dozen 
others  of  the  St.  Clare  estate  were  turned  over  to  the  loving¬ 
kindness  of  Mr.  Skeggs,  the  keeper  of  a  depot  on  - — -  Street, 
to  avrait  the  auction  next  day. 

Tom  had  with  him  quite  a  sizable  trunk  full  of  clothing, 
as  had  most  others  of  them.  They  were  ushered  for  the 


LXFB  AMOHG  THE  LOWLY, 


sal 

might  into  a  long  room,  where  many  other  men,  of  all  ages, 
sizes,  and  shades  of  complexion  were  assembled,  and  from 
which  roars  of  laughter  and  unthinking  merriment  were 
proceeding. 

“ Ah,  ha!  that’s  right.  Go  it  boys, — go  it!”  said  Mr, 
Skeggs.  “ My  people  are  always  so  merry!  Sambo,  I  see!” 
he  said,  speaking  approvingly  to  a  burly  negro  who  was  per¬ 
forming  tricks  of  low  buffoonery  which  occasioned  the  shouts 
which  Tom  had  heard. 

As  might  be  imagined,  Tom  was  in  no  humor  to  join  these 
proceedings;  and,  therefore,  setting  his  trunk  as  far  as  pos¬ 
sible  from  the  noisy  group,  he  sat  down  on  it  and  leaned  his 
face  against  the  wall. 

The  dealers  in  the  human  article  make  scrupulous  and 
systematic  efforts  to  promote  noisy  mirth  among  them,  as  a 
means  of  drowning  reflection,  and  rendering  them  insensible 
to  their  condition.  The  whole  object  of  the  training  to 
which  the  negro  is  put,  from  the  time  he  is  sold  in  the  North¬ 
ern  market  till  he  arrives  South,  is  systematically  directed  to¬ 
ward  making  him  callous,  unthinking,  and  brutal.  The  slave- 
dealer  collects  his  gang  in  Virginia  or  Kentucky  and  drives 
them  to  some  convenient,  healthy  place, — often  a  watering- 
place, —to  be  fattened.  Here  they  are  fed  full  daily;  and, 
because  some  incline  to  pine,  a  fiddle  is  kept  commonly  going 
among  them,  and  they  are  made  to  dance  daily;  and  he  who 
refuses  to  be  merry — -in  whose  soul  thoughts  of  wife,  or 
child,  or  home  are  too  strong  for  him  to  be  gay— is  marked 
as  sullen  and  dangerous,  and  subjected  to  all  the  evils  which 
the  ill-will  of  an  utterly  irresponsible  and  hardened  man 
can  inflict  upon  him.  Briskness,  alertness,  and  cheerfulness 
of  appearance,  especially  before  observers,  are  constantly  en¬ 
forced  upon  them,  both  by  the  hope  of  thereby  getting  a 
good  master,  and  the  fear  of  all  that  the  driver  may  bring 
upon  them  if  they  prove  unsalable. 

“  What  dat  ar  nigger  doin’  here?  ”  said  Sambo,  coming  up 
to  Tom  after  Mr.  Skeggs  had  left  the  room.  Sambo  was  a 
full  black  of  great  size,  very  lively,  voluble,  and  full  of  trick 
and  grimace. 

“  What  you  doin’  here?”  said  Sambo,  coming  up  to  Tom 
and  poking  him  facetiously  in  the  side.  “  Meditatin’,  eh?” 

“ I  am  to  be  sold  at  the  auction  to-morrow!”  said  Tom 
quietly. 

“■  Sold  at  auction,— haw!  haw!  boys,  an’t  this  yer  fun?  I 


BS%  TOOL!  TOM?S  CABOT;  OBs 

wish’t  1  was  gwine  that  ar  way! — tell  ye,  wouldn't  I  mate 
?em  laugh?  But  how  is  it, — dis  yer  whole  lot  gwine  to¬ 
morrow?"  said  Sambo,  laying  his  hand  freely  on  Adolph's 
shoulder. 

“  Please  to  let  me  alone!  "  said  Adolph  fiercely,  straighten¬ 
ing  himself  up  with  extreme  disgust. 

“  Law,  now,  boys!  dis  yer’s  one  o’  yer  white  niggers,™ 
kind  o’  cream-color,  ye  know,  scented!  "  said  he,  coming  up 
to  Adolph  and  snuffing.  “  Oh,  Lor!  he’d  do  for  a  tobaccer- 
shop;  they  could  keep  him  to  scent  snuff!  Lor,  he’d  keep  a 
whole  shop  agwine, — he  would!  ’’ 

“  I  say,  keep  off,  can’t  you?  "  said  Adolph,  enraged. 

“Lor,  now,  how  touchy  we  is, — we  white  niggers!  Look 
at  us,  now! "  and  Sambo  gave  a  ludicrous  imitation  of 
Adolph’s  manner;  “  here’s  de  airs  and  graces.  We*s  been  in 
a  good  family,  I  specs." 

“Yes,"  said  Adolph;  “I  had  a  master  that  could  have 
bought  you  all  for  old  truck!  ’’ 

“  Laws,  now,  only  think,"  said  Sambo,  “  the  gentlemans 
that  we  is!  ’’ 

“  I  belonged  to  the  St.  Clare  family,"  said  Adolph  proudly. 

“  Lor,  you  did!  Be  hanged  if  they  ar’n’t  lucky  to  get  shet 
of  ye.  Spects  they’s  gwine  to  trade  ye  off  with  a  lot  o’ 
cracked  teapots  and  sieh  like!  "  said  Sambo,  with  a  provoking 

grin. 

Adolph,  enraged  at  this  taunt,  flew  furiously  at  his  adver¬ 
sary,  swearing  and  striking  on  every  side  of  him.  The  rest 
laughed  and  shouted  and  the  uproar  brought  the  keeper  to 
the  door. 

“What  now,  boys?  Order! — order!"  he  said,  coming  in 
and  flourishing  a  large  whip. 

All  fled  in  different  directions  except  Sambo,  who,  pre¬ 
suming  on  the  favor  which  the  keeper  had  to  him  as  a  li¬ 
censed  wag,  stood  his  ground,  ducking  his  head  with  a  fa¬ 
cetious  grin  every  time  the  master  made  a  dive  at  him. 

“  Lor,  mas’r,  tan’t  us,— we’s  reg’lar  stiddy, — it’s  these  yer 
new  hands;  they’s  real  aggravatin’, — kinder  pickin’  at  us  all 
time! " 

The  keeper  at  this  turned  upon  Tom  and  Adolph,  and  dis¬ 
tributing  a  few  kicks  and  cuffs  without  much  injury,  and 
leaving  general  orders  for  all  to  be  good  boys  and  go  to  sleep, 

Vft  the  apartment. 

While  this  scene  was  going  on  in  the  men’s  sleeping  rooms, 


MFB  AMONG  THE  LCWLf. 


aas 


the  reader  may  be  curious  to  take  a  peep  at  the  corresponding 
apartment  allotted  to  the  women.  Stretched  out  in  various 
attitudes  over  the  floor  he  may  see  numberless  sleeping  forms 
of  every  shade  of  complexion,  from  the  purest  ebony  to 
white,  and  of  all  years,  from  childhood  to  cld  age,  lying  now 
asleep.  Here  is  a  fine  bright  girl  of  ten  years  whose  mother 
was  sold  out  yesterday  and  who  to-night  cried  herself  to 
sleep  when  nobody  was  looking  at  her.  Here,  a  worn  old  ne~ 
gress,  whose  thin  arms  and  callous  fingers  tell  of  hard  toil, 
waiting  to  be  sold  to-morrow,  as  a  cast-off  article,  for  what 
can  be  got  for  her;  and  some  forty  or  fifty  others,  with  heads 
variously  enveloped  in  blankets  or  articles  of  clothing,  lie 
stretched  around  them.  But  in  a  corner,  sitting  apart  from 
the  rest,  are  two  females  of  a  more  interesting  appearance 
than  common.  One  of  these  is  a  respectably  dressed  mulatto 
woman  between  forty  and  fifty,  with  soft  eyes  and  a  gentle 
and  pleasing  physiognomy.  She  has  on  her  head  a  high- 
raised  turban,  made  of  a  gay  red  Madras  handkerchief  of  the 
first  quality,  and  her  dress  is  neatly  fitted  and  of  good  ma¬ 
terial,  showing  that  she  has  been  provided  for  with  a  care¬ 
ful  hand.  By  her  side  and  nestling  closely  to  her  is  a  young 
girl  of  fifteen,-— her  daughter.  She  is  a  quadroon,  as  may  be 
seen  from  her  fairer  complexion,  though  her  likeness  to  her 
mother  is  quite  discernible.  She  has  the  same  soft,  dark  eye, 
with  longer  lashes,  and  her  curling  hair  is  of  a  luxuriant 
brown.  She  also  is  dressed  with  great  neatness,  and  her 
white,  delicate  hands  betray  very  little  acquaintanceship  with 
servile  toil.  These  two  are  to  be  sold  to-morrow,  in  the  same 
lot  with  the  St.  Clare  servants;  and  the  gentleman  to  whom 
they  belong  and  to  whom  the  money  for  their  sale  is  to  be 
transmitted,  is  a  member  of  a  Christian  church  in  Hew  York, 
who  will  receive  the  money  and  go  thereafter  to  the  sacra¬ 
ment  of  his  Lord  and  theirs  and  think  no  more  of  it. 

These  two,  whom  we  shall  call  Susan  and  Emmeline,  had 
been  the  personal  attendants  of  an  amiable  and  pious  lady 
of  Hew  Orleans,  by  whom  they  had  been  carefully  and  piously 
instructed  and  trained.  They  had  been  taught  to  read  and 
write,  diligently  instructed  in  the  truths  of  religion,  and 
their  lot  had  been  as  happy  an  one  as  in  their  condition  it 
was  possible  to  he.  But  the  only  son  of  their  protectress  had 
the  management  of  her  property;  and  by  carelessness  and 
extravagance  involved  it  to  a  large  amount,  and  at  last  failed. 
One  of  the  largest  creditors  was  the  respectable  firm  of  B, 


334 


UNCLE  TOM’S  CABIN  |  .  CBf 

&  Co.,  in  New  York.  B.  &  Co.  wrote  to  their  lawyer  in  New 
Orleans,  who  attached  the  real  estate  (these  two  articles  and 
a  lot  of  plantation  hands  formed  the  most  valuable  part  of 
it),  and  wrote  word  to  that  effect  to  New  York.  Brother  B., 
being,  as  we  have  said,  a  Christian  man  and  a  resident  in  a 
free  State,  felt  some  uneasiness  on  the  subject.  He  didn’t 
like  trading  in  slaves  and  souls  of  men,— of  course  he  didn’t, 
—but,  then,  there  were  thirty  thousand  dollars  in  the  case, 
and  that  was  rather  too  much  money  to  be  lost  for  a  prim 
ciple;  and  so,  after  much  considering  and  asking  advice  from 
those  that  he  knew  would  advise  to  suit  him.  Brother  B. 
wrote  to  his  lawyer  to  dispose  of  the  business  in  the  way 
that  seemed  to  him  the  most  suitable,  and  remit  proceeds. 

The  day  after  the  letter  arrived  in  New  Orleans  Susan  and 
Emmeline  were  attached  and  sent  to  the  depot  to  await  a  gen¬ 
eral  auction  on  the  following  morning;  ani  as  they  glimmer 
faintly  upon  us  in  the  moonlight  which  steals  through  the 
grated  window,  we  may  listen  to  their  conversation.  Both 
are  weeping,  but  each  quietly,  that  the  other  may  not  hear. 

“  Mother,  just  lay  your  head,  on  my  lap  and  see  if  you  can’t 
sleep  a  little,”  says  the  girl,  trying  to  appear  calm. 

“  I  haven’t  any  heart  to  sleep,  Em;  I  can’t;  it’s  the  last 
night  we  may  be  together!  ” 

“  Oh,  mother,  don’t  say  so!  perhaps  we  shall  get  sold  to¬ 
gether,- — who  knows  ?  ” 

“  If  ’twas  anybody’s  else  case  I  should  say  so,  too,  Em,” 
said  the  woman;  “  but  I’m  so  ’feard  of  losin’  you  that  I  don’t 
see  anything  but  the  danger.” 

“  Why,  mother,  that  man  said  we  were  both  likely,  and 
would  sell  well.” 

Susan  remembered  the  man’s  looks  and  words.  With  a 
deadly  sickness  at  her  heart  she  remembered  how  he  had 
looked  at  Emmeline’s  hands  and  lifted  up  her  curly  hair 
and  pronounced  her  a  first-rate  article.  Susan  had  been 
trained  as  a  Christian,  brought  up  in  the  daily  reading  of  the 
Bible,  and  had  the  same  horror  of  her  child’s  being  sold  to 
a  life  of  shame  that  any  other  Christian  mother  might  have; 
"but  she  had  no  hope, — -no  protection. 

“  Mother,  I  think  we  might  do  first-rate,  if  you  could  get 
a  place  as  cook  and  I  as  chambermaid  or  seamstress  in  some 
family.  I  dare  say  we  shall.  Let’s  both  look  as  bright  and 
lively  as  we  can,  and  tell  all  we  can  d*v  and  perhaps  we  shall,” 
said  Emmeline. 


XilFB  AMONG  THE  LOWLt. 


SS5 


“  I  want  you  to  brush  your  hair  all  back  straight  to-mor¬ 
row,”  said  Susan. 

“  What  for,  mother?  I  don't  look  near  so  well  that  way.” 

“  Yes,  but  you’ll  sell  better  so.” 

“  I  don’t  see  why!  ”  said  the  child. 

“  Respectable  families  would  he  more  apt  to  buy  you  if 
they  saw  you  looked  plain  and  decent,  as  if  you  wasn’t  trying 
to  look  handsome.  I  know  their  ways  better’n  you  do/’  said 
Susan. 

“  Well,  mother,  then  I  will.” 

“  And,  Emmeline,  if  we  shouldn’t  ever  see  each  other  again 
after  to-morrow, — if  I’m  sold  way  up  on  a  plantation  some¬ 
where,  and  you  somewhere  else, — always  remember  how 
you’ve  been  brought  up,  and  all  missis  has  told  you;  take 
your  Bible  with  you,  and  vour  hymn-book;  and  if  you’re 
faithful  to  the  Lord  he’ll  be  faithful  to  you.” 

So  speaks  the  poor  soul,  in  sore  discouragement;  for  she 
knows  that  to-morrow  any  man,  however  vile  and  brutal, 
however  godless  and  merciless,  if  he  only  has  the  money  to 
pay  for  her,  may  become  owner  of  her  daughter,  body  and 
soul;  and  then,  how  is  the  child  to  be  faithful?  She  thinks 
of  all  this  as  she  holds  her  daughter  in  her  arms,  and  wishes 
that  she  were  not  handsome  and  attractive.  It  seems  almost 
an  aggravation  to  her  to  remember  how  purely  and  piously, 
how  much  above  the  ordinary  lot,  she  has  been  brought  up. 
But  she  has  no  resort  but  to  pray;  and  many  such  prayers  to 
God  have  gone  up  from  those  same  trim,  neatly  arranged, 
respectable  slave  prisons,— prayers  which  God  has  not  for¬ 
gotten,  as  a  coming  day.  shall  show;  for  it  is  written,  “  Whoso 
causeth  one  of  these  little  ones  to  offend,  it  were  better  for 
him  that  a  millstone  were  hanged  about  his  neck,  and  that 
he  were  drowned  in  the  depths  of  the  sea.” 

The  soft,  earnest,  quiet  moonbeam  looks  in  fixedly,  mark¬ 
ing  the  bars  of  the  grated  windows  on  the  prostrate,  sleep¬ 
ing  forms.  The  mother  and  the  daughter  are  singing  to¬ 
gether  a  wild  and  melancholy  dirge,  common  as  a  funeral 
hymn  among  the  slaves: 

**  01),  whore  is  weeping  Mary  ? 

Oh,  where  is  weeping  Mary  ? 

’Rived  in  the  goodly  land. 

She  is  dead  and  gone  to  heaven  ; 

She  is  dead  and  gone  to  heaven; 

'Rived  in  the  goodly  land/* 


386 


uncle  tom’s  cab est;  ob5 

These  words,  sung  by  voices  of  a  peculiar  and  melancholy 
sweetness,  in  an  air  which  seemed  like  the  sighing  of  earthly 
despair  after  heavenly  hope,  floated  through  the  dark  prison- 
rooms  with  a  pathetic  cadence  as  verse  after  verse  was 
breathed  out: 

41  Oh,  where  are  Pam!  and  Silas  ? 

Oh,  where  are  Paul  and  Silas  ? 

Gone  to  the  goodly  land. 

They  are  dead  and  gone  to  heaven  ; 

They  are  dead  and  gone  to  heaven  ; 

'Rived  in  the  goodly  land/’ 

Sing  on,  poor  souls!  The  night  is  short,  and  the  morning 
will  part  you  forever! 

But  now  it  is  morning,  and  everybody  is  astir;  and  the 
worthy  Mr.  Skeggs  is  busy  and  bright,  for  a  lot  of  goods  is  to 
be  fitted  out  for  auction.  There  is  a  brisk  lookout  on  the 
toilet;  injunctions  passed  around  to  everyone  to  put  on  their 
best  face  and  be  spry;  and  now  all  are  arranged  in  a  circle 
for  a  last  review  before  they  are  marched  up  to  the  Bourse. 

Mr.  Skeggs,  with  his  palmetto  on  and  his  cigar  in  his 
mouth,  walks  around  to  put  farewell  touches  on  his  wares. 

“How’s  this!”  he  said,  stepping  in  front  of  Susan  and 
Emmeline.  “  Where’s  your  curls,  gal?  ” 

The  girl  looked  timidly  at  her  mother,  who,  with  the 
smooth  adroitness  common  among  her  class,  answers: 

“  I  was  telling  her  last  night  to  put  up  her  hair  smooth 
and  neat,  and  not  havin’  it  flying  about  in  curls;  looks  more 
respectable  so.” 

“  Bother!  ”  said  the  man  peremptorily,  turning  to  the  girl; 
“ you  go  right  along  and  curl  yourself  real  smart!”  He 
added,  giving  a  crack  to  a  rattan  he  held  in  his  hand,  “  and 
be  back  in  quick  time,  too! 

“  You  go  and  help  her,”  he  added  to  the  mother.  “  Them 
curls  may  make  a  hundred  dollars’  difference  in  the  sale  of 
her.” 

Beneath  a  splendid  dome  were  men  of  all  nations,  moving 
to  and  fro  over  the  marble  pave.  On  every  side  of  the  circular 
area  were  little  tribunes,  or  stations  for  the  use  of  speakers 
and  auctioneers.  Two  of  these,  on  opposite  sides  of  the 
area,  were  now  occupied  by  brilliant  and  talented  gentlemen, 
enthusiastically  forcing  up,  in  English  and  French  com- 
mingled,  the  bids  of  connoisseurs  in  their  various  wares.  A 


LIFE  AMONG-  THE  LOWLY, 


SBt 


third  one,  on  the  other  side,  still  unoccupied,  was  surrounded 
by  a  group,  waiting  the  moment  of  sale  to  begin.  And  here 
we  may  recognize  the  St.  Clare  servants,— Tom,  Adolph,  and 
others;  and  there  too,  Susan  and  Emmeline,  awaiting  their 
turn  with  anxious  and  dejected  faces.  Various  spectators, 
intending  to  purchase  or  not  intending,  as  the  case  might 
be,  gathered  around  the  group,  handling,  examining,  and 
commenting  on  their  various  points  and  faces  with  the  same 
freedom  that  a  set  of  jockeys  discuss  the  merits  of  a  horse. 

“  Hulloa,  Alf!  what  brings  you  h^re?  ”  said  a  young  ex¬ 
quisite,  slapping  the  shoulder  of  a  sprucely  dressed  young 
man  who  was  examining  Adolph  through  an  eye-glass. 

“  Well,  I  was  wanting  a  valet,  and  I  heard  that  St.  Clarets 
lot  was  going.  I  thought  I’d  just  look  at  his—” 

“  Catch  me  ever  buying  any  of  St.  Clare’s  people.  Spoilt 
niggers,  every  one.  Impudent  as  the  devil!  ”  said  the  other. 

“  Never  fear  that!  ”  said  the  first.  “  If  I  get  ’em.  I’ll  soon 
have  their  airs  out  of  them;  they’ll  soon  find  that  they’ve 
another  kind  of  master  to  deal  with  than  Monsieur  St.  Clare. 
’Pon  my  word  I’ll  buy  that  fellow.  I  like  the  shape  of 
him.” 

“  You’ll  find  it  ’ll  take  all  you’ve  got  to  keep  him.  He’s 
deucedly  extravagant!  ” 

“  Yes,  but  my  lord  will  find  that  he  can’t  be  extravagant 
with  me.  Just  let  him  be  sent  to  the  calaboose  a  few 
times  and  thoroughly  dressed  down!  I’ll  tell  you  if  you 
don’t  bring  him  to  a  sense  of  his  ways!  Oh,  I’ll  reform  him, 
up  hill  and  down,— you’ll  see.  I  buy  him,  that’s  fiat!  ” 

Tom  had  been  standing  wistfully  examining  the  multitude 
of  faces  thronging  around  him  for  one  whom  he  would  wish 
to  call  master.  And  if  you  should  ever  be  under  the  neces¬ 
sity,  sir,  of  selecting,  out  of  two  hundred  men,  one  who  was 
to  become  your  absolute  owner  and  disposer,  you  would  per¬ 
haps  realize,  just  as  Tom  did,  how  few  there  were  that  you 
would  feel  at  all  comfortable  in  being  made  over  to.  Tom 
saw  abundance  of  men,— great,  burly,  gruff  men;  little,  chirp¬ 
ing,  dried  men;  long-favored,  lank,  hard  men;  and  every  va¬ 
riety  of  stubbed-] ooking,  commonplace  men,  who  pick  up 
their  fellow-men  as  one  picks  up  chips,  putting  them  into  the 
fire  or  a  basket  with  equal  unconcern,  according  to  their  con¬ 
venience:  but  he  saw  no  St.  Clare. 

A  little  before  the  sale  commenced  a  short,  broad,  muscu¬ 
lar  man  in  a  checked  shirt  considerably  open  at  the  bosom! 


338 


uncle  tom’s  cabin;  or, 

and  pantaloons  much  the  worse  for  dirt  and  wear,  elbowed 
his  way  through  the  crowd,  like  one  who  is  going  actively 
into  a  business;  and,  coming  up  to  the  group,  began  to  ex¬ 
amine  them  systematically.  From  the  moment  that  Tom 
saw  him.  approaching  he  felt  an  immediate  and  revolting  nor- 
ror  at  him,  that  increased  as  he  came  near,  tie  was  evi¬ 
dently,  though  short,  of  gigantic  strength.  His  round,  bul¬ 
let-head,  large,  light-gray  eyes,  with  their  shaggy,  sandy 
eyebrows,  and  stiff,  wiry,  sunburned  hair,  were  rather  un¬ 
prepossessing  items,  it  is  to  be  conf  essed;  his  large,  coarse 
mouth  was  distended  with  tobacco,  the  juice  of  which,  from 
time  to  time,  he  ejected  from  him  with  great  decision  and 
explosive  force;  his  hands  were  immensely  large,  hairy,  sun¬ 
burned,  freckled,  and  very  dirty,  and  garnished  with  long 
nails  in  a  very  foul  condition.  This  man  proceeded  to  a  very 
free  personal  examination  of  the  lot.  He  seized  Tom  by  the 
jaw  and  pulled  open  his  mouth  to  inspect  his  teeth;  made 
him  strip  up  his  sleeve  to  show  his  muscle;  turned  him  round, 
made  him  jump  and  spring,  to  show  his  paces. 

“  Where  was  you  raised?  ”  he  added  briefly,  to  his  investi¬ 
gations. 

“  In  Kin  tuck,  mas’r,”  said  Tom,  looking  about  as  if  for 
deliverance. 

“  What  have  you  done?  ” 

“  Had  care  of  masVs  farm/’  said  Tom. 

“  Likely  story,”  said  the  other  shortly,  as  he  passed  on. 
He  paused  a  moment  before  Adolph;  then,  spitting  a  dis¬ 
charge  of  tobacco-juice  on  his  well-blacked  boots  and  giving 
a  contemptuous  “  Umph,”  he  walked  on.  Again  he  stopped 
before  Susan  and  Emmeline.  He  put  out  his  heavy,  dirty 
hand,  and  drew  the  girl  toward  him;  passed  it  over  her  neck 
and  bust,  felt  her  arms,  looked  at  her  teeth,  and  then  pushed 
her  back  against  her  mother,  whose  patient  face  showed  the 
suffering  she  had  been  going  through  at  every  motion  of  the 
hideous  stranger. 

The  girl  was  frightened  and  began  to  cry. 

“  Stop  that,  you  minx!  ”  said  the  salesman;  “  no  whimper¬ 
ing  here, — the  sale  is  going  to  begin.”  And  accordingly  the 
sale  began. 

Adolph  was  knocked  off,  at  a  good  sum,  to  tho  young  gen¬ 
tleman  who  had  previously  stated  his  intention  of  buying 
him;  and  the  other  servants  of  the  St.  Clare  lot  went  to  va¬ 
rious  bidders* 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY, 


389 


^How,  up  with  you,  boy!  d’ye  hear?”  said  the  auctioneer 
to  Tom. 

Tom  stepped  upon  the  block,  gave  a  few  anxious  look^ 
round;  all  seemed  mingled  in  a  common,  indistinct  noise,— 
the  clatter  of  the  salesman  crying  off  his  qualifications  hi 
French  and  English,  the  quick  fire  of  French  and  English 
bids;  and  almost  in  a  moment  came  the  final  thump  of  the 
hammer  and  the  clear  ring  of  the  last  syllable  of  the  word 
“  dollars  as  the  auctioneer  announced  his  price,  and  Tom 
was  made  over.  He  had  a  master. 

He  was  pushed  from  the  block;  the  short,  bullet-headed 
man,  seizing  him  roughly  by  the  shoulder,  pushed  him  to  one 
side,  saying  in  a  harsh  voice,  “  Stand  there,  you!  ” 

Tom  hardly  realized  anything;  but  still  the  bidding  went 
on,— rattling,  clattering,  now  French,  now  English.  Down 
goes  the  hammer  again, — Susan  is  sold!  She  goes  down  from 
the  block,  stops,  looks  wistfully  back, — her  daughter 
stretches  her  hands  toward  her.  She  looks  with  agony  in  the 
face  of  the  man  who  has  bought  her, — a  respectable,  middle- 
aged  man  of  benevolent  countenance.  “  Oh,  mas’r,  please 
do  buy  my  daughter!  ” 

“I’d  like  to,  but  ITn  afraid  I  can’t  afford  it!”  said  the 
gentleman,  looking,  with  painful  interest,  as  the  young  girl 
mounted  the  block  and  looked  around  her  with  a  frightened 
and  timid  glance. 

The  blood  flushes  painfully  in  her  otherwise  colorless 
cheek,  her  eye  has  a  feverish  fire,  and  her  mother  groans  to 
see  that  she  looks  more  beautiful  than  she  ever  saw  her  be¬ 
fore.  The  auctioneer  sees  his  advantage,  and  expatiates  vol¬ 
ubly  in  mingled  French  and  English,  and  bids  rise  in  rapid 
succession. 

“  I’ll  do  anything  in  reason,”  said  the  benevolent-looking 
gentleman,  pressing  in  and  joining  with  the  bids.  In  a  few 
moments  they  have  run  beyond  his  purse.  He  is  silent;  the 
auctioneer  grows  warmer;  but  bids  gradually  drop  off.  It 
lies  now  between  an  aristocratic  old  citizen  and  our  bullet¬ 
headed  acquaintance.  The  citizen  bids  for  a  few  turns,  con¬ 
temptuously  measuring  his  opponent  ;  but  the  bullet-head  has 
the  advantage  over  him,  both  in  obstinacy  and  concealed 
length  of  purse,  and  the  controversy  lasts  but  a  moment; 
the  hammer  falls,— he  has  got  the  girl,  body  and  soul,  unless 
G©d  helps  her. 

Her  master  is  Mr.  Legree,  who  owns  a  cotton  ufantatioJI 


840 


UNCLE  TOM’S'  Cl  BIN*  OB'. 


on  the  Red  River.  She  is  pushed  along  into  the  same  lot  with 
Tom  and  two  other  men,  and  goes  off,  weeping  as  she  goes. 

The  benevolent  gentleman  is  sorry;  but,  then,  the  thing 
happens  every  day!  One  sees  girls  and  mothers  crying,  at 
these  sales,  always!  it  can’t  be  helped,  etc.;  and  he  walks  off, 
with  his  acquisition,  in  another  direction. 

Two  days  after  the  lawyer  of  the  Christian  firm  of  B.  & 
Co.,  New  York,  sent  on  their  money  to  them.  On  the  reverse 
of  that  draft,  so  obtained,  let  them  write  these  words 
of  the  great  Paymaster  to  whom  they  shall  make  up  their  ac¬ 
count  in  a  future  day:  “  Vihen  He  maketh  inquisition  for  Mood 
He  forgetteth  not  the  cry  of  the  humble!  ” 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

THE  MIDDLE  PASSAGE. 

“  Thou  art  of  purer  eyes  than  to  behold  evil,  and  canst  not  icon  upon 
iniquity  ;  wherefore  lookest  thou  upon  them  that  deal  treacherously,  and 
boldest  thy  tongue  when  the  wicked  devoureth  the  man  that  is*  more 
righteous  than  he  ?  ”—IIab.  i.  13. 

On  the  lower  part  of  a  small,  mean  boat  on  the  Red  River, 
Tom  sat,— chains  on  his  wrists,  chains  on  his  feet,  and  a 
weight  heavier  than  chains  lay  on  his  heart.  All  had  faded 
from  his  sky,— moon  and  stars;  all  had  passed  by  him,  as  the 
trees  and  banks  were  now  passing,  to  return  no  more.  Ken¬ 
tucky  home,  with  wife  and  children  and  indulgent  owners; 
St.  Clare  home,  with  all  its  refinements  and  splendors:  the 
golden  head  of  Eva,  with  its  saint-like  eyes;  the  proud,  gay, 
handsome,  seemingly  careless,  yet  ever  kind  St.  Clare;  hours 
of  ease  and  indulgent  leisure,— all  gone!  and  in  place  thereof, 
what  remains? 

It  is  one  of  the  bitterest  apportionments  of  a  lot  of  slavery 
that  the  negro,  sympathetic  and  assimilative,  after  acquiring, 
in  a  refined  family,  the  tastes  and  feelings  which  form  the 
atmosphere  of  such  a  place,  is  not  the  less  liable  to  become 
the  bond-slave  of  the  coarsest  and  most  brutal,— just  as  a 
chair  or  table,  which  once  decorated  the  superb  saloon,  comes 
at  last,  battered  and  defaced,  to  the  barroom  of  some  filthy 
tavern  or  some  low  haunt  of  vulgar  debauchery.  The  great 
difference  is  that  the  table  and  chair  cannot  feel,  and-  the 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY. 


841 


man  can;  for  even  a  legal  enactment  that  he  shall  be  “  taken, 
reputed,  adjudged  in  law,  to  be  a  chattel  personal "  cannot 
blot  out  his  soul,  with  its  own  private  little  world  of  mem¬ 
ories,  hopes,  loves,  fears,  and  desires. 

Mr.  Simon  Legree,  Tom's  master,  had  purchased  slaves  at 
one  place  and  another  in  New  Orleans,  to  the  number  of 
eight,  and  driven  them,  handcuffed  in  couples  of  two  and 
two,  down  to  the  good  steamer  Pirate ,  which  lay  at  the  levee, 
ready  for  a  trip  up  the  Eed  River. 

Having  got  them  fairly  on  board,  and  the  boat  being  off, 
he  came  round  with  that  air  of  efficiency  which  ever  char¬ 
acterized  him,  to  take  a  review  of  them.  Stopping  opposite 
to  Tom,  who  had  been  attired  for  sale  in  his  best  broadcloth 
suit,  with  well-starched  linen  and  shining  boots,  he  briefly 
expressed  himself  as  follows: 

“  Stand  up." 

Tom  stood  up. 

“  Take  off  that  stock!  "  and  as  Tom,  encumbered  by  his 
fetters,  proceeded  to  do  it,  he  assisted  him  by  pulling  it,  with 
no  gentle  hand,  from  his  neck,  and  putting  it  in  his  pocket. 

Legree  now  turned  to  Tom's  trunk,  which  previous  to  this 
he  had  been  ransacking,  and,  taking  from  it  a  pair  of  old 
pantaloons  and  a  dilapidated  coat  which  Tom  had  been  wont 
to  put  on  about  his  stable-work,  he  said,  liberating  Tom's 
hands  from  the  handcuffs,  and  pointing  to  a  recess  in  among 
the  boxes: 

“  You  go  there,  and  put  these  on." 

Tom  obeyed,  and  in  a  few  moments  returned. 

“  Take  off  your  boots,"  said  Mr.  Legree. 

Tom  did  so. 

“  There,"  said  the  former,  throwing  him  a  pair  of  coarse, 
stout  shoes,  such  as  were  common  among  the  slaves,  “  put 
these  on." 

In  Tom's  hurried  exchange  he  had  not  forgotten  to  trans¬ 
fer  his  cherished  Bible  to  his  pocket.  It  was  well  he  did  so: 
for  Mr.  Legree,  having  refitted  Tom's  handcuffs,  proceeded 
deliberately  to  investigate  the  contents  of  his  pockets.  He 
drew  out  a  silk  handkerchief,  and  put  it  into  his  own  pocket. 
Several  little  trifles,  which  Tom  had  treasured  chiefly  be¬ 
cause  they  had  amused  Eva,  he  looked  upon  with  a  contempt¬ 
uous  grunt,  and  tossed  them  over  his  shoulder  into  the  river. 

Tom's  Methodist  hymn-book,  which  in  his  hurry  he  had 
forgotten,  he  now  held  up  and  turned  over. 


842  uncle  tom’s  cabin;  ok, 

"Humph!  pious/ to  he  sure.  So,  what’s  yer  name,— you 
belong  to  the  church,  e^  ?  ” 

"Yes,  mas’r,”  said  Tom  firmly. 

"  Well,  I’ll  soon  have  that  out  of  you.  I  have  none  o’ 
yer  bawling,  praying,  singing  niggers  on  my  place;  so  re¬ 
member.  Now,  mind  yourself,”  he  said  with  a  stamp  and 
a  fierce  glace  of  his  gray  eye,  directed  at  Tom,  I’m  your 
church  now.  You  understand? — you’ve  got  to  be  as  I  say.” 

Something  within  the  silent  black  man  a  xSwered  No!  and, 
as  if  repeated  by  an  invisible  voice,  came  the  words  of  an  old 
prophetic  scroll,  as  Eva  had  often  read  them  to  him, — "  Fear 
not!  for  I  have  redeemed  thee.  I  have  called  thee  by  My 
name.  Thou  art  mine!  ” 

But  Simon  Legree  heard  no  voice.  That  voice  is  one  he 
shall  never  hear.  He  only  glared  for  a  moment  on  the  down¬ 
cast  face  of  Tom,  and  walked  off.  He  took  Tom’s  trunk, 
which  contained  a  very  neat  and  abundant  wardrobe,  to  the 
forecastle,  where  it  was  soon  surrounded  by  various  hands  of 
the  boat.  With  much  laughing  at  the  expense  of  niggers  who 
tried  to  be  gentlemen,  the  articles  very  readily  were  sold  to 
one  and  another,  and  the  empty  trunk  finally  put  up  at  auc¬ 
tion.  It  wms  a  good  joke,  they  all  thought,  especially  to  see 
howr  Tom  looked  after  his  things  as  they  w~ere  going  this  way 
and  that;  and  then  the  auction  of  the  trunk,  that  vras  fun¬ 
nier  than  all,  and  occasioned  abundant  witticisms. 

This  little  affair  being  over,  Simon  sauntered  up  again  to 
his  property. 

"Now,  Tom,  I’ve  relieved  you  of  any  extra  baggage,  you 
see.  Take  mighty  good  care  of  them  clothes.  It  ’ll  be  long 
enough  ’fore  you  get  more.  I  go  in  for  making  niggers  care¬ 
ful;  one  suit  has  to  do  for  one  year  on  my  place.” 

Simon  next  walked  up  to  the  place  where  Emmeline  wras 
sitting,  chained  to  another  woman. 

"Well,  my  dear,”  he  said,  chucking  her  under  the  chin, 
"  keep  up  your  spirits.” 

The  involuntary  look  of  horror,  fright,  and  aversion  wdth 
which  the  girl  regarded  him,  did  not  escape  his  eye.  He 
frowned  fiercely. 

"None  o’  your  shines,  gal!  you’s  got  to  keep  a  pleasant 
face,  wrhen  I  speak  to  ve, — d’ve  hear?  And  you,  you  old  yel¬ 
low  poco  moonshine!  ”  be  ^aid.  giving  a  shove  to  the  mulatto 
woman  to  whom  Emmeline  was  chained,  "  don’t  you  carry 
that  sort  of  face!  You’s  got  to  look  chipper,  I  tell  ve!  ” 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY, 


843 


€S  I  say,  all  on  ye,”  he  said,  retreating  a  pace  or  two  hack, 
u  look  at  me,— look  at  me, — look  me  right  in  the  eye,— 
straight  now! ”  said  he,  stamping  his  foot  at  every  pause. 

As  by  a  fascination  every  eye  was  now  directed  to  the 
glaring  greenish-gray  eye  of  Simon. 

“  Now/’  said  he,  doubling  his  great,  heavy  fist  into  some¬ 
thing  resembling  a  blacksmith’s  hammer,  “  d’ye  see  this 
fist?  Heft  it!”  he  said,  bringing  it  down  on  Tom’s  hand. 
“  Look  at  these  yer  bones!  Well,  I  tell  ye  this  here  fist  has 
got  as  hard  as  iron  knocking  down  niggers .  I  never  see  the 
nigger,  yet,  I  couldn’t  bring  down  with  one  crack,”  said  he, 
bringing  his  fist  down  so  near  to  the  face  of  Tom  that  he 
winked  and  drew  back.  “I  don’t  keep  none  o’  yer  cussed 
overseers;  I  does  my  own  overseeing;  and  I  tell  you  things 
is  seen  to.  You’s  everyone  on  ye  got  to  toe  the  mark,  I  tell 
ye;  quick, — straight,— the  moment  I  speak.  That’s  the  way 
to  keep  in  with  me.  Ye  won’t  find  no  soft  spot  in  me,  no¬ 
where.  So,  now,  mind  yerselves;  for  I  don’t  show  no 
mercy!  ” 

The  women  involuntarily  drew  in  their  breath,  and  the 
whole  gang  sat  down  with  downcast,  dejected  faces.  Mean¬ 
while  Simon  turned  on  his  heel  and  marched  up  to  the.  bar 
of  the  boat  for  a  dram. 

“  That’s  the  way  I  begin  with  mv  niggers,”  he  said  to  a 
gentlemanly  man  who  had  stood  by  him  during  his  speech. 
“  It’s  my  system  of  being  strong, — just  let  ’em  know  what 
to  expect.” 

“  Indeed!  ”  said  the  stranger,  looking  upon  him  with  the 
curiosity  of  a  naturalist  studying  some  out-of-the-way  speci¬ 
men. 

“  Yes,  indeed.  I’m  none  o’  yer  gentleman  planters,  with 
lily  fingers,  to  slop  round  and  be  cheated  by  some  old  cuss 
of  an  overseer!  Just  feel  of  my  knuckles,  now;  look  at  my 
fist.  Tell  ye,  sir,  the  flesh  on’t  has  come  jest  like  a  stone, 
practicing  on  niggers, — feel  on  it.” 

The  stranger  applied  his  fingers  to  the  implement  in  ques¬ 
tion,  and  simply  said: 

“  ’Tis  hard  enough;  and,  I  suppose,”  he  added,  “  prac¬ 
tice  has  made  your  heart  just  like  it.” 

“  Why,  yes,  I  may  say  so,”  said  Simon,  with  a  hearty  laugh. 
u  I  reckon  there’s  as  little  soft  in  me  as  anyone  going.  Tell 
you,  nobody  comes  it  over  me!  Niggers  never  gets  round  me, 
neither  with  squalling  nor  soft  soap,— that’s  a  fact.” 


344 


UNCUS  tom’s  CABIN ;  OB* 

“  You  have  a  fine  lot  there.” 

“  Eeal!  ”  said  Simon.  “  There’s  that  Tom,  they  telled  me 
he  was  suthin  uncommon.  I  paid  a  little  high  for  him, 
Tendin’  him  for  a  driver  and  a  managing  chap;  only  get  the 
notions  out  that  he’s  larnt  by  being  treated  as  niggers  never 
ought  to  be,  heTl  do  prime!  The  yellow  woman  I  got  took  in 
in.  I  rayther  think  she’s  sickly,  but  I  shall  put  her  through 
for  what  she’s  worth;  she  may  last  a  year  or  two.  I  don’t  go 
for  savin’  niggers.  Use  up,  and  buy  more ’s  my  way,— makes 
you  less  trouble,  and  I’m  quite  sure  it  comes  cheaper  in  the 
end;  ”  and  Simon  sipped  his  glass. 

“  And  how  long  do  they  generally  last?  ”  said  the  stranger. 

“  Well,  donno;  ’cordin’  as  their  constitution  is.  Stout  fel¬ 
lers  last  six  or  seven  years;  trashy  ones  gets  worked  up  in  two 
or  three.  I  used  to,  when  I  fust  begun,  have  considerable 
trouble  fussin’  with  ’em,  and  trying  to  make  ’em  hold  out, — 
doctorin’  on  ’em  up  when  they’s  sick,  and  givin’  on  ’em 
clothes  and  blankets,  and  what  not,  tryin’  to  keep  ’em  ail 
sort  o’  decent  and  comfortable.  Law,  ’twasn’t  no  sort  o’  use; 
I  lost  money  on  ’em,  and  ’twas  heaps  o’  trouble.  Now,  you 
see,  I  just  put  ’em  straight  through,  sick  or  well.  When  one 
nigger’s  dead,  I  buy  another;  and  I  find  it  comes  cheaper  and 
easier,  every  way.” 

The  stranger  turned  away  and  seated  himself  beside  a 
gentleman  who  had  been  listening  to  the  conversation  with 
repressed  uneasiness. 

“  You  must  not  take  that  fellow  to  be  any  specimen  of 
Southern  planters,”  said  he. 

“  I  should  hope  not,”  said  the  young  gentleman,  with  em¬ 
phasis. 

“  He  is  a  mean,  low,  brutal  fellow!  ”  said  the  other. 

“  And  yet  your  laws  allow  him  to  hold  any  number  of  hu¬ 
man  beings  subject  to  his  absolute  will,  without  even  a 
shadow  of  protection;  and,  low  as  he  is,  you  cannot  say  that 
there  are  not  many-  such.” 

“  Well,”  said  the  other,  “  there  are  also  many  considerate 
and  humane  men  among  planters.” 

“  Granted,”  said  the  young  man;  “  but,  in  my  opinion,  it 
is  you  considerate,  humane  men  that  are  responsible  for  all 
the  brutality  and  outrage  wrought  by  these  wretches;  be¬ 
cause,  if  it  were  not  for  your  sanction  and  influence,  the 
whole  system  could  not  keep  foothold  for  an  hour.  If  there 
were  no  planters  except  such  as  that  one,”  said  he,  pointing 


LIFE  AMOKS  THE  LOWLY* 


345 


with  his  finger  to  Legree,  who  stood  with  his  back  to  them, 
“  the  whole  thing  would  go  down  like  a  millstone.  It  is  your 
respectability  and  humanity  that  licenses  and  protects  his 
brutality.” 

“  You  certainly  have  a  high  opinion  of  my  good  nature,” 
said  the  planter,  smiling;  “  but  I  advise  you  not  to  talk  quite 
so  loud,  as  there  are  people  on  board  the  boat  who  might 
not  be  so  tolerant  to  opinion  as  I  am.  You  had  better  wait 
till  I  get  up  to  my  plantation,  and  there  you  may  abuse  us 
all,  quite  at  your  leisure.” 

The  young  gentleman  colored  and  smiled,  and  the  two 
were  soon  busy  in  a  game  of  backgammon.  Meanwhile 
another  conversation  was  going  oil  in  the  lower  part  of  the 
boat,  between  Emmeline  and  the  mulatto  woman  with  whom 
she  was  confined.  As  was  natural,  they  were  exchanging 
with  each  other  some  particulars  of  their  history. 

“  Who  did  you  belong  to  ?  ”  said  Emmeline. 

“  W- ell,  my  mash  was  Mr.  Ellis, — lived  on  Levee  Street. 
P’r’aps  you’ve  seen  the  house.” 

“  Was  he  good  to  you?  ”  said  Emmeline. 

“  Mostly,  till  he  tuk  sick.  He’s  lain  sick,  off  and  on,  more 
than  six  months,  and  been  orful  oneasy.  ’Pears  like  he 
warn’t  willin’  to  have  nobody  rest,  day  nor  night;  and  got 
so  curous,  there  couldn’t  nobody  suit  him.  ’Pears  like  he 
just  grew  Grosser  every  day;  kep’  me  up  nights  till  I  got 
fairly  beat  out,  and  couldn’t  keep  awake  no  longer;  and 
’cause  I  got  to  sleep,  one  night,  Lors,  he  talk  so  orful  to  me, 
and  he  tell  me  he’d  sell  me  to  just  the  hardest  master  he 
could  find;  and  he’d  promised  me  my  freedom,  too,  when  he 
died.” 

“  Had  you  any  friends?  ”  said  Emmeline. 

“  Yes,  my  husband,- — he’s  a  blacksmith.  Mas’r  gen’ly  hired 
him  out.  They  took  me  off  so  quick  I  didn’t  even  have  time 
to  see  him;  and  I’s  got  four  children.  Oh,  dear  me!  ”  said 
the  woman,  covering  her  face  with  her  hands. 

It  is  the  natural  impulse,  in  every  one,  when  they  hear  a 
tale  of  distress,  to  think  of  something  to  say  by  way  of  con¬ 
solation.  Emmeline  wanted  to  say  something,  but  she  could 
not  think  of  anything  to  say.  What  was  there  to  be  said? 
As  by  a  common  consent  they  both  avoided,  with  fear  and 
dread,  all  mention  of  the  horrible  man  who  was  now  their 
master. 

True,  there  is  religious  trust  for  even  the  darkest  hour* 


846 


xJNCLB  tom’s  cabin;  OB. 

The  mulatto  woman  was  a  member  of  the  Methodist  ChurcK* 
and  had  an  unenlightened,  but  very  sincere,  spirit  of  piety. 
Emmeline  had  been  educated  much  more  intelligently, — 
taught  to  read  and  write,  and  diligently  instructed  in  the 
Bible,  by  the  care  of  a  faithful  and  pious  mistress;  yet,  would 
it  not  try  the  faith  of  the  firmest  Christians  to  find  them¬ 
selves  abandoned,  apparently,  of  God,  in  the  grasp  of  ruth¬ 
less  violence?  How  much  more  must  it  shake  the  faith  of 
Christ’s  poor  little  ones,  weak  in  knowledge  and  tender  in 
years. 

The  boat  moved  on, —freighted  with  its  weight  of  sorrow, 
up  the  red,  muddy,  turbid  current,  through  the  abrupt,  tor¬ 
tuous  windings  of  the  Bed  Biver;  and  sad  eyes  gazed  wearily 
on  the  steep  red-clay  banks  as  they  glided  by  in  dreary  same¬ 
ness.  At  last  the  boat  stopped  at  a  small  town,  and  Legree, 
with  his  party,  disembarked. 


CHAPTEB  XXXII. 

DARK  PLACES. 

“The  dark  places  of  the  earth  are  full  of  the  habitations  of  cruelty.” 

Trailing  wearily  behind  a  rude  wagon,  and  over  a  ruder 
road,  Tom  and  his  associates  faced  onward. 

In  the  wagon  was  seated  Simon  Legree;  and  the  two 
women,  still  fettered  together,  were  stowed  away  with  some 
baggage  in  the  back  part  of  it;  and  the  whole  company  were 
seeking  Legree’s  plantation,  which  lay  a  good  distance  off. 

It  was  a  wild,  forsaken  road,  now  winding  through  dreary 
pine  barrens,  where  the  wind  whispered  mournfully,  and 
now  over  log  causeways,  through  long  cypress  swamps,  the 
doleful  trees  rising  out  of  the  slimy,  spongy  ground,  hung 
with  long  wreaths  of  funereal  black  moss,  while  ever  and 
anon  the  loathsome  form  of  the  moccasin  snake  might  be 
seen  sliding  among  broken  stumps  and  shattered  branches 
that  lay  here  and  there,  rotting  in  the  water. 

It  is  disconsolate  enough,  this  riding,  to  the  stranger, 
who,  with  well-filled  pocket  and  well-appointed  horse, 
threads  the  lonely  way  on  some  errand  of  business:  but 
wilder,  drearier,  to  the  man  enthralled,  whom  every  weary 
Step  bears  further  from  all  that  man  loves  and  prays  for. 


MFB  AMONG  THE  LOWLY. 


Mi 

So  one  should  have  thought,  that  witnessed  the  sunken 
and  dejected  expression  on  those  dark  faces;  the  wistful, 
patient  weariness  with  which  those  sad  eyes  rested  on  object 
after  object  that  passed  them  in  their  sad  journey. 

Simon  rode  on,  however,  apparently  well  pleased,  occa¬ 
sionally  pulling  away  at  a  flask  of  spirit,  which  he  kept  in  his 
pocket. 

“I  say  you!”  he  said,  as  he  turned  back  and  caught  a 
glance  at  the  dispirited  faces  behind  him.  <(  Strike  up  a 
song,  boys, — come!  ” 

The  men  looked  at  each  other,  and  the  “  come  ”  was  re¬ 
peated,  with  a  smart  crack  of  the  whip  which  the  driver 
carried  in  his  hands.  Tom  began  a  Methodist  hymn: 

“  Jerusalem,  my  happy  home. 

Name  ever  dear  to  me  ! 

When  shall  my  sorrows  have  an  end, 

Thy  joys  when  shall - ” 

“  Shut  up,  you  black  cuss!  ”  roared  Legree;  “  did  ye  think 
I  wanted  any  o*  yer  infernal  old  Methodism?  I  say,  tune  up, 
now,  something  real  rowdy, — quick!  ” 

One  of  the  other  men  struck  up  one  of  those  unmeaning 
songs,  common  among  the  slaves: 

“  Mas’r  see’d  me  cotch  a  coon, 

High,  boys,  high  ! 

He  laughed  to  split,-— d’ye  see  the  moon, 

Ho  !  ho  !  ho  !  boys,  ho  ! 

Ho  !  yo  !  hi — e  !  oh  !  ” 

The  singer  appeared  to  make  up  the  song  to  his  own  pleas¬ 
ure,  generally  hitting  on  rhyme,  without  much  attempt  at 
reason;  and  all  the  party  took  up  the  chorus,  at  intervals: 

“  Ho  !  ho  !  ho  !  boys,  ho  ! 

High — e— oh  !  high — e— oh  !  ” 

It  was  sung  very  boisterously,  and  with  a  forced  attempt 
at  merriment;  but  no  wail  of  despair,  no  words  of  impas¬ 
sioned  prayer,  could  have  had  such  a  depth  of  woe  in  them  as 
the  wild  notes  of  the  chorus.  As  if  the  poor,  dumb  heart, 
threatened,  prisoned, — took  refuge  in  that  inarticulate 
sanctuary  of  music,  and  found  there  a  language  in  which 
to  breathe  its  prayer  to  God!  There  was  a  prayer  in  it, 
which  R-mon  could  not  hear.  He  only  heard  tl  ws  sing- 


848  raoLE  tom’s  cabin  ;  oi 

ing  noisily,  and  was  well  pleased;  he  was  making  them  “  keep 
up  their  spirits.” 

“  Well,  my  little  dear/’  said  he,  turning  to  Emmeline,  and 
laying  his  hand  on  her  shoulder,  “  we’re  almost  home!  ” 

When  Legree  scolded  and  stormed,  Emmeline  was  terri¬ 
fied;  but  when  he  laid  his  hand  on  her,  and  spoke  as  he  now 
did,  she  felt  as  if  she  had  rather  he  would  strike  her.  The 
expression  of  his  eyes  made  her  soul  sick  and  her  flesh  creep. 
Involuntarily  she  clung  closer  to  the  mulatto  woman  by  her 
side,  as  if  she  were  her  mother. 

“  You  didn’t  ever  wear  earrings,”  he  said,  taking  hold  of 
her  small  ears  with  his  coarse  fingers. 

“  No,  mas’r!  ”  said  Emmeline,  trembling  and  looking 
down. 

“  Well,  I’ll  give  you  a  pair,  when  we  get  home,  if  you’re  a 
good  girl.  You  needn’t  be  so  frightened;  I  don’t  mean  to 
make  you  work  very  hard.  You’ll  have  fine  times  with  me, 
and  live  like  a  lady,— only  be  a  good  girl.” 

Legree  had  been  drinking  to  that  degree  that  he  was  in¬ 
clining  to  be  very  gracious;  and  it  was  about  this  time  that 
the  inclosures  of  the  plantation  rose  to  view.  The  estate 
had  formerly  belonged  to  a  gentleman  of  opulence  and  taste, 
who  had  bestowed  some  considerable  attention  to  the  adorn¬ 
ment  of  his  grounds.  Having  died  insolvent,  it  had  been 
purchased,  at  a  bargain,  by  Legree,  who  used  it,  as  he  did 
everything  else,  merely  as  an  implement  for  money-making. 
The  place  had  that  ragged,  forlorn  appearance  which  is  al¬ 
ways  produced  by  the  evidence  that  the  care  of  the  former 
owner  has  been  left  to  go  to  utter  decay. 

What  was  once  a  smooth-shaven  lawn  before  the  house, 
dotted  here  and  there  with  ornamental  shrubs,  was  now  cov¬ 
ered  with  frowzy,  tangled  grass,  with  horse-posts  set  up  here 
and  there  in  it,  where  the  turf  was  stamped  away  and  the 
ground  littered  with  broken  pails,  cobs  of  corn,  and  other 
slovenly  remains.  Here  and  there  a  mildewed  jessamine  or 
honey-suckle  hung  raggedly  from  some  ornamental  support, 
which  had  been  pushed  to  one  side  by  being  used  as  a  horse- 
post.  What  once  was  a  large  garden  was  now  all  grown  over 
with  weeds,  through  which,  here  and  there,  some  solitary 
exotic  reared  its  forsaken  head.  What  had  been  a  conserva¬ 
tory  had  now  no  window-sashes,  and  on  the  moldering 
shelves  stood  some  dry,  forsaken  flower-pots,  with  sticks  in 
them,  whose  dried  leaves  showed  they  had  once  been  plants. 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY. 


349 


The  wagon  rolled  up  a  weedy  gravel  walk,  under  a  noble 
avenue  of  China  trees,  whose  graceful  forms  and  ever-spring¬ 
ing  foliage  seemed  to  he  the  only  things  there  that  neglect 
could  not  daunt  or  alter, — like  noble  spirits,  so  deeply  rooted 
in  goodness  as  to  flourish  and  grow  stronger  amid  dis¬ 
couragement  and  decay. 

The  house  had  been  large  and  handsome.  It  was  built  in 
a  manner  common  at  the  South;  a  wide  veranda  of  two 
stories  running  round  every  part  of  the  house,  into  which 
every  outer  door  opened,  the  lower  tier  being  supported  by 
brick  pillars. 

But  the  place  looked  desolate  and  uncomfortable;  some 
windows  stopped  up  with  boards,  some  with  shattered  panes, 
and  shutters  hanging  by  a  single  hinge, — all  telling  of  coarse 
neglect  and  discomfort. 

Bits  of  board,  straw,  old  decayed  barrels  and  boxes  gar¬ 
nished  the  ground  in  all  directions;  and  three  or  four  fero¬ 
cious-looking  dogs,  roused  by  the  sound  of  the  wagon-wheels, 
came  tearing  out,  and  were  with  difficulty  restrained  from 
laying  hold  of  Tom  and  his  companions  by  the  efforts  of  the 
ragged  servants  who  came  after  them. 

“  Ye  see  wdiat  ye’d  get!  ”  said  Legree,  caressing  the  dogs 
with  grim  satisfaction,  and  turning  to  Tom  and  his  com¬ 
panions.  “  Ye  see  what  ye’d  get  if  ye  try  to  run  off.  These 
yer  dogs  has  been  raised  to  track  niggers;  and  they’d  jest  as 
soon  chaw  one  on  ye  up  as  to  eat  their  supper.  So  mind 
yerself!  How  now,  Sambo!”  he  said,  to  a  ragged  fellow, 
without  any  brim  to  his  hat,  who  was  officious  in  his  atten¬ 
tions.  “  How  have  things  been  going?” 

“  Fust-rate,  mas’r.” 

“  Quimbo,”  said  Legree  to  another,  who  was  making  zeal¬ 
ous  demonstrations  to  attract  his  attention,  “  Ye  minded 
what  I  telled  ye?  ” 

“  Guess  I  did,  didn’t  I?” 

These  two  colored  men  were  the  two  principal  hands  on 
the  plantation.  Legree  had  trained  them  in  savageness  and 
brutality  as  systematically  as  he  had  his  bulldogs;  and  by 
long  practice  in  hardness  and  cruelty  brought  their  whole 
nature  to  about  the  same  range  of  capacities.  It  is  a  com¬ 
mon  remark,  and  one  that  is  thought  to  militate  strongly 
against  the  character  of  the  race,  that  the  negro  overseer  is 
always  more  tyrannical  and  cruel  than  the  white  one.  This 
is  simply  saying  that  the  negro  mind  has  been  more  crushed 


350  UNCLE  TOMy8  CABIN  ;  .OB* 

and  debased  than  the  white.  It  is  no  more  true  of  this  race 
than  of  every  oppressed  race*  the  world  over.  The  slave  is 
always  a  tyrant,  if  he  can  get  a  chance  to  be  one. 

Legree,  like  some  potentates  we  read  of  in  history,  gov¬ 
erned  his  plantation  by  a  sort  of  resolution  of  forces. 
Sambo  and  Quimbo  cordially  hated  each  other;  the  planta¬ 
tion  hands,  one  and  all,  cordially  hated  them;  and  oy  playing 
oft'  one  against  another  he  was  pretty  sure,  through  one  or 
the  other  of  the  three  parties,  to  get  informed  of  whatever 
was  on  foot  in  the  place. 

Nobody  can  live  entirely  without  social  intercourse;  and 
Legree  encouraged  his  two  black  satellites  to  a  kind  of  coarse 
familiarity  with  him, — a  familiarity,  however,  at  any  mo¬ 
ment  liable  to  get  one  or  the  other  of  them  into  trouble;  for, 
on  the  slightest  provocation,  one  of  them  always  stood 
ready,  at  a  nod,  to  be  a  minister  of  his  vengeance  on  the 
other. 

As  they  stood  there  now  by  Legree  they  seemed  an  apt 
illustration  of  the  fact  that  brutal  men  are  lower  even  than 
animals.  Their  coarse,  dark,  heavy  features;  their  great 
eyes,  rolling  enviously  on  each  other;  their  barbarous,  gut¬ 
tural,  half-brute  intonation;  their  dilapidated  garments  flut¬ 
tering  in  the  wind, — were  all  in  admirable  keeping  with  the 
vile  and  unwholesome  character  of  everything  about  the 
place. 

“  Here,  you  Sambo,”  said  Legree,  “take  these  yer  boys 
down  to  the  quarters;  and  here’s  a  gal  I’ve  got  for  you”  said 
he,  as  he  separated  the  mulatto  woman  from  Emmeline,  and 
pushed  her  toward  him;— “  I  promised  to  bring  you  one,  you 
know.” 

The  woman  gave  a  sudden  start,  and,  drawing  back,  said 
suddenly: 

“  Oh,  mas’r!  I  left  my  old  man  in  New  Orleans.” 

“What  of  that,  you  - ;  won’t  you  want  one  here? 

None  o’  yer  words, — go  ’long!”  said  Legree,  raising  his 
whip. 

“  Come,  mistress,”  he  said  to  Emmeline,  “  you  go  in  here 
with  me.” 

A  dark,  wild  face  was  seen  for  a  moment  to  glance  at  the 
window  of  the  house;  and  as  Legree  opened  the  door  a  female 
voice  said  something  in  a  quick,  imperative  tone.  Tom,  who 
was  looking  with  anxious  interest  after  Emmeline  as  she 
went  in,  noticed  this,  and  heard  Legree  answer  angrily, 


WFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY. 


851 


“You  may  hold  your  tongue!  I’ll  do  as  I  please,  for  all 
you!  ” 

Tom  heard  no  more;  for  he  was  soon  following  Sambo  to 
the  quarters.  The  quarters  was  a  little  sort  of  street  of  rude 
shanties,  in  a  row,  in  a  part  of  the  plantation  far  off  from 
the  house.  'They  had  a  forlorn,  brutal,  forsaken  air.  Tom’s 
heart  sunk  when  he  saw  them.  He  had  been  comforting 
himself  with  the  thought  of  a  cottage,  rude,  indeed,  but  one 
which  he  might  make  neat  and  quiet,  and  where  he  might 
have  a  shelf  for  his  Bible  and  a  place  to  be  alone  out  of  his 
laboring  hours.  He  looked  into  several;  they  were  mere  rude 
shells,  destitute  of  any  species  of  furniture,  except  a  heap  of 
straw,  foul  with  dirt,  spread  confusedly  over  the  floor,  which 
was  merely  the  bare  ground  trodden  hard  by  the  tramping  of 
innumerable  feet. 

“  Which  of  these  will  be  mine?”  said  he  to  Sambo  sub¬ 
missively. 

“Dunno;  ken  turn  in  here,  s’pose,”  said  Sambo;  “  spects 
thar’s  room  for  another  thar;  thar’s  a  pretty  smart  heap  o’ 
niggers  to  each  on  ’em,  now;  sure,  I  dunno  what  I’s  to  do 
with  more.” 

It  was  late  in  the  evening  when  the  weary  occupants  of 
the  shanties  came  flocking  home, — men  and  women,  in  soiled 
and  tattered  garments,  surly  and  uncomfortable,  and  in  no 
mood  to  look  pleasantly  on  newcomers.  The  small  village 
was  alive  with  no  inviting  sounds;  hoarse,  guttural  voices 
contending  at  the  handmills  where  their  morsel  of  hard  corn 
was  yet  to  be  ground  into  meal,  to  fit  it  for  the  cake  that  was 
to  constitute  their  only  supper.  From  the  earliest  dawn  of 
the  day  they  had  been  in  the  fields,  pressed  to  work  under 
the  driving  lash  of  the  overseers;  for  it  was  now  in  the  very 
heat  and  hurry  of  the  season,  and  no  means  was  left  untried 
to  press  everyone  up  to  the  top  of  their  capabilities. 
“  True,”  says  the  negligent  lounger;  “  picking  cotton  isn’t 
hard  work,”  Isn’t  it?  And  it  isn’t  much  inconvenience, 
either,  to  have  one  drop  of  water  fall  on  your  head;  yet  the 
worst  torture  of  the  Inquisition  is  produced  by  drop  after 
drop,  drop  after  drop,  falling  moment  after  moment,  with 
monotonous  succession,  on  the  same  spot;  and  work,  in  itself 
not  hard,  becomes  so  by  being  pressed,  hour  after  hour,  with 
unvarying,  unrelenting  sameness,  with  not  even  the  con® 
sciousness  of  free-will  to  take  from  its  tediousness.  Tom 


35$  THSTCLE  TOM’S  CABIN  ;  OB, 

looked  in  vain  among  the  gang,  as  they  poured  along,  for 
companionable  faces.  He  saw  only  sullen,  scowling,  iin- 
bruted  men,  and  feeble,  discouraged  women,  or  women  that 
were  not  women,— the  strong  pushing  away  the  weak, — the 
gross,  unrestricted  animal  selfishness  of  human  beings  of 
whom  nothing  good  was  expected  or  desired,  and  who, 
treated  in  every  way  like  brutes,  had  sunk  as  nearly  to  their 
level  as  it  was  possible  for  human  beings  to  do.  To  a  late 
hour  in  the  night  the  sound  of  the  grinding  was  protracted; 
for  the  mills  were  few  in  number  compared  with  the 
grinders,  and  the  weary  and  feeble  ones  were  driven  back 
by  the  strong,  and  came  on  last  in  their  turn. 

“Ho  yo’!”  said  Sambo,  coming  to  the  mulatto  woman, 
and  throwing  down  a  bag  of  corn  before  her;  “  what  a  cuss 
yo’  name?” 

“  Lucy,”  said  the  woman. 

“  Wal,  Lucy,  yo’  my  woman  now.  Yo’  grind  dis  yer  corn, 
and  get  my  supper  baked,  ye  har?  ” 

“I  an’t  your  woman,  and  I  won’t  be!”  said  the  woman, 
with  the  sharp,  sudden  courage  of  despair;  “  you  go  ’long!  ” 

“  I’ll  kick  yo’,  then!  ”  said  Sambo,  raising  his  foot  threat¬ 
eningly. 

“Ye  may  kill  me,  if  ye  choose,— the  sooner  the  better! 
Wish’t  I  was  dead!  ”  said  she. 

“  I  say,  Sambo,  you  go  to  spilin’  the  hands,  I’ll  tell  mas’r 
o’  you,”  said  Quimbo,  who  was  busy  at  the  mill,  from  which 
he  had  viciously  driven  Wo  or  three  tired  women,  who  were 
waiting  to  grind  their  corn. 

“  And  I’ll  tell  him  ye  won’t  let  the  women  come  to  the 
mills,  yo’  old  nigger!  ”  said  Sambo.  “  Yo’  jest  keep  to  yo’ 
own  row.” 

Tom  was  hungry  with  his  day’s  journey,  and  almost  faint 
for  want  of  food. 

“Thar  yo’!  ”  said  Quimbo,  throwing  down  a  coarse  bag, 
which  contained  a  peck  of  corn;  “  thar,  nigger,  grab,  take 
car’  on’t,— yo’  won’t  get  no  more  dis  yer  week.” 

Tom  waited  till  a  late  hour  to  get  a  place  at  the  mills; 
and  then,  moved  by  the  utter  weariness  of  Wo  women  whom 
he  saw!  trying  to  grind  their  corn  there,  he  ground  for  them, 
put  together  the  decaying  brands  of  the  fire  where  many  had 
baked  cakes  before  them,  and  then  went  about  getting  his 
own  supper.  It  was  a  new  kind  of  work  there,— a  deed  of 
charity,  small  as  it  was;  but  it  woke  an  answering  touch  in 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY. 


nm 

their  hearts,— an  expression  of  womanly  kindness  came  over 
their  hard  faces;  they  mixed  his  cake  for  him,  and  tended  its 
baking;  and  Tom  sat  down  by  the  light  of  the  fire.,  and  drew 
out  his  Bible, — for  he  had  need  of  comfort. 

“  What’s  that?  ”  said  one  of  the  women. 

“  A  Bible/’  said  Tom. 

“  Good  Lord!  han’t  seen  un  since  I  was  in  Kentuck.” 

“  Was  you  raised  in  Kentuck?  ”  said  Tom,  with  interest. 

“  Yes,  and  well  raised,  too;  never  spected  to  come  to  dis 
yer!  ”  said  the  woman,  sighing. 

“  What’s  dat  ar  book,  anyway?”  said  the  other  woman. 

“  Why,  the  Bible.” 

“  Laws  a  me!  what’s  dat?  ”  said  the  woman. 

aDo  tell!  you  never  hearn  on’t?”  said  the  other  woman. 
“I  used  to  har  missis  a-readin’  on’t,  sometimes  in  Kentuck; 
but,  laws  o’  me!  we  don’t  har  nothin’  here  but  crackin’  and 
swarm’.” 

“  Bead  a  piece,  anyways!  ”  said  the  first  woman  curiously, 
seeing  Tom  attentively  poring  over  it. 

Tom  read;  “  Come  unto  Me,  all  ye  that  labor  and  are 
heavy  laden,  and  I  will  give  you  rest.” 

“Them’s  good  words  enough,”  said  the  woman;  “who 
says  ’em?” 

“  The  Lord,”  said  Tom. 

“  I  jest  wish  I  know’d  where  to  find  him,”  said  the  woman. 
“  I  would  go;  ’pears  like  I  never  should  get  rested  agin.  My 
flesh  is  fairly  sore,  and  I  tremble  all  over,  every  day,  and 
Sambo’s  allers  a- jawin’  at  me,  ’cause  I  doesn’t  pick  faster; 
and  nights  it’s  most  midnight  ’fore  I  can  get  my  supper; 
and  den  ’pears  like  I  don’t  turn  over  and  shut  my  eyes  ’fore 
I  hear  de  horn  blow  to  get  up  and  at  it  agin  in  de  mornin’. 
If  I  knew  whar  de  Lord  was,  I’d  tell  him.” 

“  He’s  here,  he’s  everywhere,”  said  Toni. 

“  Lor,  you  an’t  gwine  to  make  me  believe  dat  ar!  I  know 
de  Lord  an’t  here,”  said  the  woman;  “ ’tan’t  no  use  talking, 
though.  I’s  jest  gwine  to  camp  down,  and  sleep  while  I  ken.” 

The  women  went  off  to  their  cabins,  and  Tom  sat  alone  by 
the  smoldering  fire  that  flickered  up  redly  in  his  face. 

The  silver,  fair-browed  moon  rose  in  the  purple  sky,  and 
looked  down,  calm  and  silent,  as  God  looks  on  the  scene  of 
misery  and  oppression,— looked  calmly  on  the  lone  black 
man,  as  he  sat,  with  his  arms  folded  and  his  Bible  on  his 
knee. 


$54 


uncle  tom’s  cabin;  or, 

“  Is  God  here?  ”  Ah,  how  is  it  possible  for  the  untaught 
heart  to  keep  its  faith,  unswerving,  in  the  face  of  dire  mis™ 
rule  and  palpable,  unrebuked  injustice?  In  that  simple  heart 
waged  a  fierce  conflict:  the  crushing  sense  of  wrong,  the  fore¬ 
shadowing  of  a  whole  life  of  future  misery,  the  wreck  of 
all  past  hopes,  mournfully  tossing  in  the  soul’s  sight,  like 
dead  corpses  of  wife  and  child  and  friend  rising  from  the 
dark  wave  and  surging  in  the  face  of  the  half-drowned  mar¬ 
iner!  Ah,  was  it  easy  here  to  believe  and  hold  fast  the  great 
password  of  Christian  faith,  “  that  God  is,  and  is  the  re¬ 
warder  of  them  that  diligently  seek  him  ”  ? 

Tom  rose,  disconsolate,  and  stumbled  into  the  cabin  that 
had  been  allotted  to  him.  The  floor  was  already  strewn  with 
weary  sleepers,  and  the  foul  air  of  the  place  almost  repelled 
him;  but  the  heavy  night  dews  were  chill,  and  his  limbs 
weary,  and  wrapping  about  him  a  tattered  blanket  which 
formed  his  only  bed-clothing,  he  stretched  himself  in  the 
straw  and  fell  asleep. 

In  dreams,  a  gentle  voice  came  over  his  ear;  he  was  sitting 
on  the  mossy  seat  in  the  garden  by  Lake  Pontchartrain,  and 
Eva,  with  her  serious  eyes  bent  downward,  was  reading  to 
him  from  the  Bible;  and  he  heard  her  read; 

“  When  thou  passest  through  the  waters,  I  will  be  with 
thee,  and  the  rivers  they  shall  not  overflow  thee;  when  thou 
walkest  through  the  fire  thou  shalt  not  be  burned,  neither 
shall  the  flame  kindle  upon  thee;  for  I  am  the  Lord  thy  God, 
the  Holy  One  of  Israel,  thy  Saviour.” 

Gradually  the  words  seemed  to  melt  and  fade,  as  in  a  di¬ 
vine  music;  the  child  raised  her  deep  eyes  and  fixed  them 
lovingly  on  him,  and  rays  of  warmth  and  comfort  seemed  to 
go  from  them  to  his  heart;  and,  as  if  wafted  on  the  music, 
she  seemed  to  rise  on  shining  wings,  from  which  flakes  and 
spangles  of  gold  fell  off  like  stars,  and  she  was  gone. 

Tom  woke.  Was  it  a  dream?  Let  it  pass  for  one.  But 
who  shall  say  that  that  sweet  young  spirit,  which  in  life  so 
yearned  to  comfort  and  console  the  distressed,  was  forbid¬ 
den  of  God  to  assume  this  ministry  after  death? 

'•  It  is  a  beautiful  belief, 

That  ever  round  our  head 
Are  hovering,  on  angel  wings, 

The  spirits  of  the  dead/9 


LIFE  AMOHG  TEE  LOWLY, 


855 


CHAPTER  XXXIII, 

GASSY. 

*'s  And  heboid,  the  tears  of  oucli  as  were  oppressed,  and  they  had  no 
comforter  ;  and  on  the  side  of  their  oppressor;:  there  was  power  >  but  they 
had  no  comforter.  ” — Eccl.  iv .  1. 

It  took  but  a  short  time  to  familiarize  Tom  with  all  that 
was  to  be  hoped  or  feared  in  his  new  way  of  life.  Pie  was  an 
export  and  efficient  workman  in  whatever  he  undertook,  and 
was,  both  from  habit  and  principle,  prompt  and  faithful. 
Quiet  and  peaceable  in  his  disposition,  he  hoped,  by  unre¬ 
mitting  diligence,  to  avert  from  himself  at  least  a  portion 
of  the  evils  of  his  condition.  He  saw  enough  of  abuse  and 
misery  to  make  him  sick  and  weary;  but  he  determined  to 
toil  on,  with  religious  patience,  committing  himself  to  Him 
that  judgeth  righteously,  not  without  hope  that  some  way 
of  escape  might  yet  be  opened  to  him. 

Legree  took’ silent  note  of  TonTs  availability.  He  rated 
him  as  a  first-class  hand;  and  yet  he  felt  a  secret  dislike  to 
him,— the  native  antipathy  of  had  to  good.  He  saw  plainly 
that  when,  as  was  often  the  case,  his  violence  and  brutality 
fell  on  the  helpless,  Tom  took  notice  of  it;  for  so  subtle  is  the 
atmosphere  of  opinion,  that  it  will  make  itself  felt,  without 
words;  and  the  opinion  even  of  a  slave  may  annoy  a  master. 
Tom  in  various  ways  manifested  a  tenderness  of  feeling,  a 
commiseration  for  his  fellow-sufferers,  strange  and  new  to 
them,  which  was  watched  with  a  jealous  eye  by  Legree.  He 
had  purchased  Tom  with  a  view  of  eventually  making  him  a 
sor  c-f  overseer,  with  whom  he  Alight  at  times  intrust  his 
affr  ir  in  short  absences;  and,  in  his  view,  the  first,  second, 
and  third  requisite  for  that  place  was  hardness .  Legree  made 
up  his  mind,  that,  as  Tom  was  not  hard  to  his  hand,  he  would 
harden  him  forthwith;  and  some  few  weeks  after  Tom  had 
been  on  the  place  he  determined  to  commence  the  process. 

One  morning  when  the  hands  were  mustered  for  the  field 
Tom  noticed,  with  surprise,  a  newcomer  among  them,  whose 
appearance  excited  his  attention.  It  was  a  woman,  tall  and 
slenderly  formed,  with  remarkably  delicate  hands  and  feet, 
and  dressed  in  neat  and  respectable  garments.  By  the  ap¬ 
pearance  of  her  face  she  might  have  been  between  thirty- 
five  and  forty;  and  it  was  a  face  that,  once  seen,  could  never 


358 


UNCLE  TOM’S  CABIN  £  OK, 

be  forgotten,— one  of  those  that  at  a  glance  seem  to  convey 
to  us  an  idea  of  a  wild,  painful,  and  romantic  history.  Her 
forehead  was  high,  and  her  eyebrows  marked  with  beautiful 
clearness.  Her  straight,  well-formed  nose,  her  finely  cut 
mouth,  and  the  graceful  contour  of  her  head  and  neck 
showed  that  she  must  once  have  been  beautiful;  but  her  face 
was  deeply  wrinkled  with  lines  of  pain,  and  of  proud  and  bit¬ 
ter  endurance.  Her  complexion  was  sallow  and  unhealthy, 
her  cheeks  thin,  her  features  sharp,  and  her  whole  form 
emaciated.  But  her  eye  vras  the  most  remarkable  feature, 
— so  large,  so  heavily  black,  overshadowed  by  long  lashes  of 
equal  darkness,  and  so  wildly,  mournfully  despairing.  There 
was  a  fierce  pride  and  defiance  in  every  line  of  her  face,  in 
every  curve  of  the  flexible  lip,  in  every  motion  of  her  body; 
but  in  her  eye  was  a  deep,  settled  night  of  anguish, — -an  ex¬ 
pression  so  hopeless  and  unchanging  as  to  contrast  fearfully 
with  the  scorn  and  pride  expressed  by  her  whole  demeanor. 

Where  she  came  from,  or  who  she  was,  Tom  did  not  know. 
The  first  he  did  know  she  was  walking  by  his  side,  erect  and 
proud,  in  the  dim  gray  of  the  dawn.  To  the  gang,  however, 
she  was  known;  for  there  was  much  looking  and  turning  of 
heads,  and  a  smothered  yet  apparent  exultation  among  the 
miserable,  ragged,  half -starved  creatures  by  whom  she  was 
surrounded. 

“  Got  to  come  to  it,  at  last, — -glad  of  it!  ”  said  one. 

“  He!  he!  he!  ”  said  another;  “  you’ll  know  how  good  it  is, 
misse!  ” 

“  We’ll  see  her  work!  ” 

“  WTonder  if  she’ll  get  a  cutting-up  at  night,  like  the  rest 
of  us !  ” 

“  I’d  be  glad  to  see  her  down  for  a  flogging,  I’ll  be  bound!  ” 
said  another. 

The  woman  took  no  notice  of  these  taunts,  but  walked  on, 
with  the  same  expression  of  angry  scorn,  as  if  she  heard 
nothing.  Tom  had  always  lived  among  refined  and  cultivated 
people,  and  he  felt  intuitively,  from  her  air  and  bearing,  that 
she  belonged  to  that  class;  but  how  or  why  she  could  be 
fallen  to  those  degrading  circumstances,  he  could  not  tell. 
The  woman  neither  looked  at  him  nor  spoke  to  him,  though 
all  the  way  to  the  field  she  kept  close  at  his  side. 

Tom  was  soon  hnsy  at  his  work;  but,  as  the  woman  was  at 
no  great  distance  from  him,  he  often  glanced  am'  eye  to  her 
at  her  work.  He  saw  at  a  glance  that  a  native  adroitness  and 


LIFE  AMONG  TH&  LOWLY. 


3  g? 


handiness  made  the  task  to  her  an  easier  one  than  it  proved 
to  many.  She  picked  very  fast  and  very  clean,  and  with  an 
air  of  scorn,  as  if  she  despised  both  the  work  and  the  dis¬ 
grace  and  humiliation  cf  the  circumstances  in  which  she  was 
placed. 

In  the  course  of  the  day  Tom  was  working  near  the  mu¬ 
latto  woman  who  had  been  bought  in  the  same  lot  v/ith  him¬ 
self.  She  was  evidently  in  a  condition  of  great  suffering, 
and  Tom  often  heard  her  praying,  as  she  wavered  and 
trembled  and  seemed  about  to  fall  down.  Tom  silently,  as 
he  came  near  to  her,  transferred  several  handfuls  of  cot¬ 
ton  from  his  own  sack  to  hers. 

“  Oh,  don’t,  don’t!”  said  the  woman,  looking  surprised; 
“  if  ’ll  get  you  into  trouble.” 

Just  then  Sambo  came  up.  He  seemed  to  have  a  special 
spite  against  this  woman;  and,  flourishing  his  whip,  said,  in 
brutal,  guttural  tones,  “  What  dis  yer,  Luce, — foolin’  a’?” 
and,  with  the  word,  kicking  the  woman  with  his  heavy  cow¬ 
hide  shoe,  he  struck  Tom  across  the  face  with  his  whip. 

Tom  silently  resumed  his  task;  but  the  woman,  before  at 
the  last  point  of  exhaustion,  fainted. 

“I’ll  bring  her  to!”  said  the  driver,  with  a  brutal  grin. 
“I’ll  give  her  something  better  than  camphire!  ”  and  taking 
a  pin  from  his  coat  sleeve  he  buried  it  to  the  head  in  her 
flesh.  The  woman  groaned,  and  half  rose.  “  Get  up,  you 
beast,  and  work,  will  yer,  or  I’ll  show  yer  a  trick  more!  ” 

The  woman  seemed  stimulated  for  a  few  moments  to  an 
unnatural  strength,  and  worked  with  desperate  eagerness. 

“  See  that  you  keep  to  dat  ar,”  said  the  man,  “  or  yer  ’ll 
wish  yer’s  dead  to-night,  I  reckin!  ” 

“  That  I  do  now!  ”  Tom  heard  her  say;  and  again  he  heard 
her  say,  “  0  Lord,  how  long!  0  Lord,  why  don’t  you  help 
us?  ” 

At  the  risk  of  all  that  he  might  suffer,  Tom  came  for¬ 
ward  again  and  put  all  the  cotton  in  his  sack  into  the 
woman’s. 

“  Oh,  you  mustn’t!  you  dunno  what  they’ll  do  to  ye!  ”  said 
the  woman. 

“  I  can  bar  it!  ”  said  Tom,  “  better’n  you;  ”  and  he  was  at 
his  place  again.  It  passed  in  a  moment. 

Suddenly  the  stranger  woman  whom  we  have  described, 
and  who  had  in  the  course  of  her  work  come  near  enough  to 
hear  Tom’s  last  words*  raised  her  heavy  black  eyes  and  fixed 


ess 


UNCLjS  TOM*S  CABm  ;  OR, 

them  for  a  second  on  him;  then,  taking  a  quantity  of  cottott 
from  her  basket,  she  placed  it  in  his. 

“  You  know  nothing  about  this  place,”  she  said,  “  or  you 
wouldn't  have  done  that.  When  you've  been  here  a  month, 
you'll  be  done  helping  anybody;  you'll  find  it  hard  enough  to 
take  care  of  your  own  skin! '' 

“  The  Lord  forbid,  missis!  ”  said  Tom,  using  instinctively 
to  his  field  companion  the  respectful  form  proper  to  the  high¬ 
bred  with  whom  he  had  lived. 

“  The  Lord  never  visits  these  parts,”  said  the  woman  bit¬ 
terly,  a.s  she  went  nimbly  forward  with  her  work:  and  again 
the  scornful  smile  curled  her  lips. 

But  the  action  of  the  woman  had  been  seen  by  the  driver 
across  the  field;  and,  flourishing  his  whip,  he  came  up  to 
her. 

“  What!  what!  ”  he  said  to  the  woman,  with  an  air  of  tri¬ 
umph,  “  you  a-foolin'?  Go  along!  yer  under  me  now— -mind 
yourself,  or  ye'll  cotch  it!  ” 

A  glance  like  sheet-lightning  suddenly  flashed  from  those 
black  eyes;  and  facing  about,  with  quivering  lip  and  dilated 
nostrils,  she  drew  herself  up  and  fixed  a  glance,  blazing  with 
rage  and  scorn,  on  the  driver. 

“Dog!”  she  said,  “touch  me,  if  you  dare!  I've  power 
enough,  yet,  to  have  you  torn  by  the  dogs,  burnt  alive,  cut 
to  inches!  I've  only  to  say  the  word!  ” 

“What  de  devil  you  here  for,  den?”  said  the  man,  evi¬ 
dently  cowed,  and  sullenly  retreating  a  step  or  two.  “  Didn't 
mean  no  harm,  Misse  Gassy!  ” 

“  Keep  your  distance,  then!  ”  said  the  woman.  And,  in 
truth,  the  man  seemed  greatly  inclined  to  attend  to  some¬ 
thing  at  the  other  end  of  the  field,  and  started  off  in  quick 
time. 

The  woman  suddenly  turned  to  her  work,  and  labored 
with  a  dispatch  that  was  perfectly  astonishing  to  Tom.  She 
seemed  to  work  by  magic.  Before  the  day  was  through  her 
basket  was  filled,  crowded  down,  and  piled,  and  she  had 
several  times  put  largely  into  Tom's.  Long  after  dusk  the 
whole  weary  train,  with  their  baskets  on  their  heads,  defiled 
up  to  the  building  appropriated  to  the  storing  and  weighing 
the  cotton.  Legree  was  there,  busily  conversing  with  the 
twro  drivers. 

“  Dat  ar  Tom's  gwine  to  make  a  powerful  deal  o'  -trouble; 
kept  a-puttin'  into  Lucy's  basket.  One  o'  these  yer  dat  will 


LIFE  AMONG  THIS  LOWLY. 


359 


get  all  de  niggers  to  feelin  ’bused,  if  mas’r  don’t  watch  him! ” 
said  Sambo. 

“Hey-dey!  The  black  cuss!”  said  Degree.  “ He’ll  have 
to  get  a  breakin’-in,  won’t  he,  boysi  ” 

Both  negroes  grinned  a  horrid  grin  at  this  intimation. 

“Aye,  aye!  let  Mas’r  Legree  alone,  for  breakin’-in!  De 
debbil  heself  couldn’t  beat  mas’r  at  dat!  ”  said  Quimbo. 

“  Wal,  boys,  the  best  way  is  tc  give  him  the  flogging  to  do, 
till  he  gets  over  his  notions.  Break  him  in!  ” 

“  Lord,  mas’r  ’ll  have  hard  work  to  get  dat  out  o’ 
him!  ” 

“  It  ’ll  have  to  come  out  of  him,  though!  ”  said  Legree,  as 
he  rolled  his  tobacco  in  his  mouth. 

“  Now,  dar’s  Lucy, — de  aggravatinest,  ugliest  wench  cn  de 
place!  ”  pursued  Sambo. 

“  Take  care,  Sam;  I  shall  begin  to  think  what’s  the  reason 
for  your  spite  agin  Lucy.” 

“Well,  mas’r  knows  she  sot  herself  up  agin  mas’r,  and 
wouldn’t  have  me  when  he  felled  her  to.” 

“  I’d  ’a’  flogged  her  irito’t,”  said  Legree,  spitting,  “  only 
there’s  such  a  press  of  work,  it  don’t  seem  wuth  a  while  to 
.upset  her  jist  now.  She’s  slender;  but  these  yer  slender  gals 
will  bear  half  killin’  to  get  their  own  way!  ” 

“  Wal,  Lucy  was  real  aggravatin’  and  lazy,  sulkin’  round; 
wouldn’t  do  nothin’, — and  Tom  he  tuck  up  for  her.” 

“He  did,  eh!  Wal,  then,  Tom  shall  have  the  pleasure  of 
flogging  her.  It  ’ll  be  a  good  practice  for  him,  and  he  won’t 
put  it  on  to  the  gal  like  you  devils,  neither.” 

“Ho,  ho!  haw!  haw!  haw!”  laughed  both  the  sooty 
wretches;  and  the  diabolical  sounds  seemed,  in  truth,  a  not 
unapt  expression  of  the  fiendish  character  which  Legree  gave 
them. 

“Wal,  but,  mas’r,  Tom  and  Misse  Cassy,  and  dev  among 
’em,  filled  Lucy’s  basket.  I  ruther  guess  der  weight’s  in  it, 
mas’r!  ” 

“  I  do  the  weighing!  ”  said  Legree  emphatically. 

Both  the  drivers  laughed  again  their  diabolical  laugh. 

“  So!  ”  he  added,  “  Misse  Cassy  did  her  day’s  work.” 

“  She  picks  like  de  debbil  and  all  his  angels!  ” 

“She’s  got  ’em  all  in  her,  I  believe,”  said  Legree;  and 
growling  a  brutal  oath  he  proceeded  to  the  weighing  room. 

Slowly  the  weary  dispirited  creatures  wound  thei^way  into 


S80 


UNCLE  tom’s  cabin  ;  OB, 

the  room,  and  with  crouching  reluctance  presented  their 
baskets  to  be  weighed. 

Legree  noted  on  a  slate,  on  the  side  of  which  was  pasted  a 
list  of  names,  the  amount. 

Tom’s  basket  was  weighed  and  approved;  and  he  looked 
with  an  anxious  glance  for  the  success  of  the  woman  he  had 
befriended. 

Tottering  with  weakness  she  came  forward  and  delivered 
her  basket.  It  was  of  full  weight,  as  Legree  well  perceived; 
but,  affecting  anger,  he  said: 

“  What,  you  lazy  beast!  short  again!  stand  aside,  you’ll 
catch  it  pretty  soon!  ” 

The  woman  gave  a  groan  of  utter  despair  and  sank  down 
on  a  board. 

The  person  who  had  been  called  Misse  Gassy  now  came  for¬ 
ward  and,  with  a  haughty,  negligent  air,  delivered  her 
basket.  As  she  delivered  it  Legree  looked  into  her  eyes  with 
a  sneering,  yet  inquiring  glance. 

She  fixed  her  black  eyes  steadily  on  him,  her  lips  moved 
slightly,  and  she  said  something  in  French.  What  it  was 
no  one  knew;  but  Legree’s  face  became  perfectly  demoniacal 
in  its  expression  as  she  spoke;  he  half  raised  his  hand  as  if 
to  strike, — a  gesture  which  she  regarded  with  fierce  disdain 
as  she  turned  and  walked  away. 

“  And  now,”  said  Legree,  “  come  here,  you  Tom.  You  see 
I  telled  ye  I  didn’t  buy  ye  jest  for  the  common  work;  I  mean 
to  promote  ye  and  make  a  driver  of  ye;  and  to-night  ye  may 
just  as  well  begin  to  get  yer  hand  in.  Now  ye  jest  take  this 
yer  gal  and  flog  her;  ye’ve  seen  enough  on’t  to  know  how.” 

“  I  beg  mas’r’s  pardon,”  said  Tom;  “  hopes  mas’r  won’t 
set  me  at  that.  It’s  what  I  an’t  used  to,— never  did,— and 
can’t  do,  noway  possible.” 

“  Ye’ll  larn  a  pretty  smart  chance  of  things  ye  never  did 
know  before  I’ve  done  with  ye!  ”  said  Legree,  taking  up  a 
cowhide  and  striking  Tom  a  heavy  blow  across  the  cheek 
and  following  up  the  infliction  by  a  shower  of  blows. 

“  There!  ”  he  said,  as  he  stopped  to  rest;  “  now  will  ye  tell 
me  ye  can’t  do  it?  ” 

“Yes,  mas’r,”  said  Tom,  putting  up  his  hand  to  wipe  the 
blood  that  trickled  clown  his  face.  “  I’m  willin’  to  work  night 
and  day,  and  work  while  there’s  life  and  breath  in  me;  but 
this  yer  thing  I  can’t  feel  it  right  to  do;  and,  mas’r,  I  never 

shall  do  it.  never!” 


'LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY,.  Sgl 

Tom  had  a  remarkably  smooth,  soft  volte,  and  a  habitually 
respectful  manner  that  had  given  Legree  an  idea  that  he 
would  be  cowardly  and  easily  subdued.  When  he  spoke  these 
last  words  a  thrill  of  amazement  went  through  everyone; 
the  poor  woman  clasped  her  hands  and  said  “  0  Lord!  ”  and 
everyone  involuntarily  looked  at  each  other  and  drew  in 
their  breath,  as  if  to  prepare  for  the  storm  that  was  about  to 
burst. 

Legree  looked  stupefied  and  confounded;  but  at  last  burst 
forth: 

“  What!  ye  blasted  black  beast!  tell  me  ye  don’t  think  it 
right  to  do  what  I  tell  ye!  What  have  any  of  you  cussed 
cattle  to  do  with  thinking  what’s  right?  I’ll  put  a  stop  to  it! 
Why,  what  do  ve  think  ye  are?  Maybe  ye  think  ye’re  a  gen¬ 
tleman,  Master  Tom,  to  be  a-telling  your  master  what’s  right 
and  what  an’t!  So  you  pretend  it’s  wrong  to  flog  the  gaii  ” 

“  I  think  so,  inas’r,”  said  Tom;  “  the  poor  crittur’s  sick  and 
feeble;  ’twould  be  downright  cruel,  and  it’s  what  I  never  will 
do  nor  begin  to.  Mas’r,  if  you  mean  to  kill  me,  kill  me;  hut, 
as  to  my  raising  my  hand  agin  anyone  here,  I  never  shall — 
I’ll  die  first!  ” 

Tom  spoke  in  a  mild  voice,  but  with  a  decision  that  could 
not  be  mistaken.  Legree  shook  with  anger  ;  his  greenish  eyes 
glared  fiercely  and  his  very  whiskers  seemed  to  curl  with 
passion;  but,  like  some  ferocious  beast  that  plays  with  its 
victim  before  he  devours  it,  he  kept  back  his  strong  im¬ 
pulse  to  proceed  to  immediate  violence  and  broke  out  into 
bitter  raillery. 

“Well,  here’s  a  pious  dog  at  last  let  down  among  us  sin¬ 
ners! — a  saint,  a  gentleman,  and  no  less,  to  talk  to  us  sinners 
about  our  sins!  Powerful  holy  crittur  he  must  be!  Here, 
you  rascal,  you  make  believe  to  be  so  pious, — didn’t  you  never 
bear,  out  of  yer  Bible,  6  Servants,  obey  yer  masters  ’  ?  An’t 
I  yer  master?  Didn’t  I  pay  down  twelve  hundred  dollars 
cash  for  all  there  is  inside  yer  old  cussed  black  shell?  An’t 
yer  mine  now,  body  and  soul?  ”  he  said,  giving  Tom  a  violent 
kick  with  his  heavy  boot;  “  tell  me!  ” 

In  the  very  depth  of  physical  suffering,  bowed  by  brutal 
oppression,  this  question  shot  a  gleam  of  joy  and  triumph 
through  Tom’s  soul,  tie  suddenly  stretched  himself  up  and, 
looking  earnestly  to  heaven,  while  the  tears  and  blood  that 
flowed  down  his  face  mingled,  he  exclaimed: 

“No!  no!  no!  my  soul  an’t  yours,  mas’r!  You  haven’t 


m2 


UNCLE  TOM’S  .CABOT  l  OB, 

bought  it,— ye  can’t  buy  it!  It's  been  bought  and  paid  for  by 
One  that  is  able  to  keep  it; — no  matter,  no  matter,  you  can’t 
harm  me!  ” 

“I  can’t!”  said  Legree,  with  a  sneer;  “we’ll  see, — we’ll 
see!  Here,  Sambo,  Quimbo,  give  this  dog  such  a  breakin’-in 
as  he  won’t  get  over  this  month!  ” 

The  two  gigantic  negroes  that  now  laid  hold  of  Tom,  with 
fiendish  exultation  in  their  faces,  might  have  formed  no  un¬ 
apt  personification  of  the  powers  of  darkness.  The  poor 
woman  screamed  with  apprehension,  and  all  rose,  as  by 
a  general  impulse,  while  they  dragged  him  unresisting  from 
the  place. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

THE  QUADROON’S  STORY. 

“  And  behold  the  tears  of  such  as  are  oppressed  ;  and  on  the  side  of 
their  oppressors  there  was  power.  Wherefore  I  praised  the  dead  that 
are  already  dead  more  than  the  living  that  are  yet  ali ve.” — JEJccl.  iv.  1. 

It  was  late  at  night,  and  Tom  lay  groaning  and  bleeding 
alone  in  an  old  forsaken  room  of  the  gin-house  among  pieces 
of  broken  machinery,  piles  of  damaged  cotton,  and  other 
rubbish  which  had  there  accumulated. 

The  night  was  damp  and  close,  and  the  thick  air  swarmed 
with  myriads  of  mosquitoes,  which  increased  the  restless  tor¬ 
ture  of  his  wounds;  while  a  burning  thirst— a  torture  beyond 
all  others,- — filled  up  the  uttermost  measure  of  physical  an¬ 
guish. 

“  Oh,  good  Lord!  Do  look  down, — give  me  the  victory! 
give  me  the  victory  over  all!  ”  prayed  Tom  in  his  anguish. 

A  footstep  entered  the  room  behind  him,  and  the  light  of 
a  lantern  flashed  on  his  eyes. 

“Who’s  there?  Oh,  for  the  Lord’s  massy,  please  give  me 
some  water!  ” 

The  woman  Cassy — -for  it  was  she- — set  down  her  lantern 
and,  pouring  water  from  a  bottle,  raised  his  head  and  gave 
him  drink.  Another  and  another  cup  were  drained  with  fe¬ 
verish  eagerness. 

“  Drink  all  ye  want,”  she  said;  “  I  knew  how  it  would  be* 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY.  $08 

It  isn’t  the  first  time  I’ve  been  out  in  the  night  carrying 
water  to  such  as  you.” 

“  Thank  you,  missis/’  said  Tom,  when  he  had  done  drink- 
ing. 

“  Don’t  call  me  missis!  I’m  a  miserable  slave  like  your¬ 
self, — a  lower  one  than  you  can  ever  be!  ”  said  she  bitterly; 
“  but  now,”  said  she,  going  to  the  door  and  dragging  in  a 
small  paillasse,  over  which  she  had  spread  linen  cloths  wet 
with  cold  water,  “  try,  my  poor  fellow,  to  roll  yourself  on 
to  this.” 

Stiff  with  wounds  and  bruises  Tom  was  a  long  time  in 
accomplishing  this  movement;  but,  when  done,  he  felt  a  sen¬ 
sible  relief  from  the  cooling  application  to  his  wounds. 

The  woman,  whom  long  practice  with  the  victims  of  bru¬ 
tality  had  made  familiar  with  many  healing  arts,  went  on 
to  make  many  applications  to  Tom’s  wounds,  by  means  of 
which  he  was  soon  somewhat  relieved. 

“  Now,”  said  the  woman,  when  she  had  raised  his  head  on 
a  roll  of  damaged  cotton  which  served  for  a  pillow,  “  there’s 
the  best  I  can  do  for  you.” 

Tom  thanked  her;  and  the  woman,  sitting  down  on  the 
floor,  drew  up  her  knees  and,  embracing  them  with  her  arms, 
looked  fixedly  before  her  with  a  bitter  and  painful  expression 
of  countenance.  Her  bonnet  fell  back  and  long  wavy  streams 
of  black  hair  fell  around  her  singular  and  melancholy  face. 

u  It’s  no  use,  my  poor  fellow!  ”  she  broke  out  at  last,  “  it’s 
of  no  use  this  you’ve  been  trying  to  do.  You  were  a  brave  fel¬ 
low,  you  had  the  right  on  your  side;  but  it’s  all  in  vain,  and 
out  of  the  question,  for  you  to  struggle.  You  are  in  the 
devil’s  hands;  he  is  the  strongest  and  you  must  give  up!  ” 

Give  up!  and  had  not  human  weakness  and  physical  agony 
whispered  that  before?  Tom  started;  for  the  bitter  woman, 
with  her  wild  eyes  and  melancholy  voice,  seemed  to  him  an 
embodiment  of  the  temptation  with  which  he  had  been 
wrestling. 

“  0  Lord!  0  Lord!  ”  he  groaned,  “  how  can  I  give  up?  ” 

“  There’s  no  use  calling  on  the  Lord,— he  never  hears,” 
said  the  woman  steadily  ;  “  there  isn’t  any  God,  I  believe  ;  or, 
if  there  is,  he’s  taken  sides  against  us.  All  goes  against  us, 
heaven  and  earth.  Everything  is  pushing  us  into  hell.  Why 
shouldn’t  we  go?  ” 

Tom  closed  his  eyes  and  shuddered  at  the  dark,  atheistic 
words. 


TTHOLE  TOM'S  CABOT  ;  OB5 


.  "  You  see,”  said  the  woman,  a  you  don’t  know  any* Mug 
about  it; — I  do.  I’ve  been  on  this  place  five  years,  body  and 
soul,  under  this  man’s  foot;  and  I  hate  him  as  I  do  the  devil! 
Here  you  are,  on  a  lone  plantation,  ten  miles  from  any  other,  in 
the  swamps;  not  a  white  person  here  who  could  testify  if  you 
were  burned  alive, — if  you  were  scalded,  cut  into  inch-pieces, 
set  up  for  the  dogs  to  tear,  or  hung  up  and  whipped  to  death. 
There’s  no  law  here,  of  God  or  man,  that  can  do  you  or  any 
one  of  us  the  least  good;  and  this  man!  there’s  no  earthly 
thing  that  he’s  too  good  to  do.  I  could  make  anyone’s  hair 
rise  and  their  teeth  chatter  if  I  should  only  tell  what  I’ve 
seen  and  been  knowing  to  here, — and  it’s  no  use  resisting! 
Did  I  want  to  live  with  him?  Wasn’t  I  a  woman  delicately 
bred;  and  he — God  in  heaven!  what  was  he  and  is  he?  And 
yet  I’ve  lived  with  him  these  five  years  and  cursed  every  mo¬ 
ment  of  my  life,- — night  and  day!  And  now  he’s  got  a  new 
one, — a  young  thing,  only  fifteen,  and  she  brought  up,  she 
says,  piously.  Her  good  mistress  taught  her  to  read  the 
Bible;  and  she’s  brought  her  Bible  here — to  hell  with  her!  ” 
■ — and  the  woman  laughed  a  wild  and  doleful  laugh  that  rung 
with  a  strange,  supernatural  sound  through  the  old  ruined 
shed. 

Tom  folded  his  hands;  all  was  darkness  and  horror. 

“  0  Jesus!  Lord  Jesus!  have  you  quite  forgot  us  poor  crit- 
turs?”  burst  forth  at  last;— “help,  Lord,  I  perish!” 

The  woman  sternly  continued: 

“  And  what  are  these  miserable  low  dogs  that  you  work 
with,  that  you  should  suffer  on  their  account?  Every  one 
of  them  would  turn  against  you  the  first  time  they  got  a 
chance.  They  are  all  of  ’em  as  low  and  cruel  to  each  other 
as  they  can  be;  there’s  no  use  in  your  suffering  to  keep  from 
hurting  them.” 

“  Poor  critturs!  ”  said  Tom,— “what  made  ’em  cruel?— 
and,  if  I  give  out,  I  shall  get  used  to’t,  and  grow,  little  by 
little,  just  like  ’em!  Ho,  no,  missis!  I’ve  lost  everything, — 
wife,  and  children,  and  home,  and  a  kind  mas’r, — -and  he 
would  have  set  me  free  if  he’d  only  lived  a  week  longer;  I’ve 
lost  everything  in  this  world,  and  it’s  clean  gone  forever, — - 
and  now  I  can’t  lose  heaven,  too;  no,  I  can’t  get  to  be  wicked, 
besides  all!  ” 

“  But  it  can’t  be  that  the  Lord  will  lay  sin  to  our  account,” 
said  the  woman;  "he  won’t  charge  it  to  us  when  we’re  forced 
to  it;  he’ll  charge  it  to  them  that  drove  us  to  it.” 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY. 


S8i 

“  Yes,”  said  Tom;  “  but  that  won’t  keep  ns  from  growing 
wicked.  If  I  get  to  be  as  hardhearted  as  that  ar  Sambo, 
and  as  wicked,  it  won’t  make  much  odds  to  me  how  I  come 
so;  it’s  the  5 eiri*  so, — that  ar’s  what  Fm  a-dreadin’.” 

The  woman  fixed  a  wild  and  startled  look  on  Tom  as  if  a 
new  thought  had  struck  her;  and  then,  heavily  groaning, 
said: 

“  0  God  V  mercy!  you  speak  the  truth!  Oh! — oh!— oh! ” 
— and  with  groans  she  fell  on  the  floor  like  one  crushed  and 
writhing  under  the  extremity  of  mental  anguish. 

There  was  a  silence  a  wbfle  in  which  the  breathing  of  both 
parties  could  be  heard,  when  Tom  faintly  said,  “  Oh,  please, 
missis!  ” 

The  woman  suddenly  rose  up,  with  her  face  composed  to 
its  usual  stern,  melancholy  expression. 

“  Please,  missis,  I  saw  ’em  throw  my  coat  in  that  ar  corner, 
and  in  my  coat-pocket  is  my  Bible;— if  missis  would  please 
get  it  for  me.” 

Gassy  went  and  got  it.  Tom  opened  at  once  to  a  heavily 
marked  passage,  much  worn,  of  the  last  scenes  in  the  life  of 
Him  by  whose  stripes  we  are  healed. 

“  If  missis  would  only  be  so  good  as  read  that  ar, — it’s 
better  than  water.” 

Gassy  took  the  book  with  a  dry,  proud  air,  and  looked  over 
the  passage.  She  then  read  aloud,  in  a  soft  voice,  and  with 
a  beauty  of  intonation  that  was  peculiar,  that  touching  ac¬ 
count  of  anguish  and  glory.  Often,  as  she  read,  her  voice 
faltered  and  sometimes  failed  her  altogether,  when  she  would 
stop,  with  an  air  of  frigid  composure,  till  she  had  mastered 
herself.  When  she  came  to  the  touching  words,  “  Father, 
forgive  them,  for  they  know  not  what  they  do,”  she  threw 
down  the  book  and,  burying  her  face  in  the  heavy  masses  of 
her  hair,  she  sobbed  aloud  with  a  convulsive  violence. 

Tom  was  weeping  also,  and  occasionally  uttering  a  smoth¬ 
ered  ejaculation. 

“If  we  only  could  keep  up  to  that  ar!  ”  said  Tom; — “it 
seemed  to  come  so  natural  to  Him,  and  we  have  to  fight  so 
hard  for ’t!  0  Lord,  help  us!  0  blessed  Lord  Jesus,  do  help 

us! 

“  Missis,”  said  Tom,  after  a  while,  “  I  can  see  that,  some¬ 
how,  you’re  quite  ’hove  me  in  everthing;  but  there’s  one 
thing  misses  might  learn  even  from  poor  Tom.  Ye  said  the 
Lord  took  sides  against  us  because  he  lets  us  be  ’bused  and 


366 


UNCLE  tom’s  CABIN ;  OB| 

knocked  around;  but  ye  see  what  come  on  hie  own  Son,— the 
blessed  Lord  of  Glory, — warn't  he  allays  poor?  and  have  we, 
any  on  us,  yet  come  so  low  as  ho  come?  The  Lord  han't  for¬ 
got  us, — I'm  sartin  o'  that  ar.  If  we  suffer  with  him  we 
shall  also  reign,  Scripture  says;  but  if  we  deny  him,  he  also 
will  deny  us.  Didn't  they  all  suffer?— the  Lord  and  all  his? 
It  tells  how  they  was  stoned  and  sawn  asunder,  and  wandered 
about  in  sheep-skins  and  goat-skins,  and  was  destitute,  af¬ 
flicted,  tormented.  Sufferin'  an't  no  reason  to  make  us  think 
the  Lord's  turned  agin  us;  but  jest  the  contrary,  if  only  we 
hold  on  to  him  and  doesn't  give  up  to  sin." 

“But  why  does  he  put  us  where  we  can't  help  but  sin?" 
said  the  woman. 

“  I  think  we  can  help  it,"  said  Tom. 

“  You'll  see,"  said  Cassy;  “what  '11  you  do?  To-morrow 
they'll  be  at  you  again.  I  know  'em;  I've  seen  all  their  do¬ 
ings;  I  can't  bear  to  think  of  all  they'll  bring  you  to; — and 
they'll  make  you  give  out  at  last!  " 

“  Lord  Jesus!  "  said  Tom,  “  you  will  take  care  of  my  soul! 
0  Lord,  do! — don't  let  me  give  out!  " 

“  Oh,  dear!"  said  Cassy;  “  I've  heard  all  this  crying  and 
praying  before;  and  yet,  they've  been  broken  down  and 
brought  under.  There's  Emmeline,  she’s  trying  to  hold  on 
and  you’re  trying, — but  what  use?  You  must  give  up  or  be 
killed  by  inches." 

“  Well,  then  I  will  die!  "  said  Tom.  “  Spin  it  out  as  long 
as  they  can,  they  can't  help  my  dying  some  time!— and  after 
that  they  can't  do  no  more.  I'm  clar,  I'm  set!  I  know  the 
Lord  '11  help  me  and  bring  me  through." 

The  woman  did  not  answer;  she  sat  with  her  black  eyes  in¬ 
tently  fixed  on  the  floor. 

“  Maybe  it's  the  way,"  she  murmured  to  herself;  “but 
those  that  have  given  up  there's  no  hope  for  them! — none! 
We  live  in  filth,  and  grow  loathsome,  till  we  loathe  ourselves! 
And  we  long  to  die  and  we  don't  dare  to  kill  ourselves! — No 
hope!  no  hope!  no  hope!— this  girl  now,— just  as  old  as  I  was! 

“  You  see  me  nowr,"  she  said,  speaking  to  Tom  very  rap'dly; 
“  see  what  I  am!  Well,  I  was  brought  up  in  luxury;  the  first 
I  remember  is  playing  about  when  I  was  a  child,  in  splendid 
parlors;— when  I  was  kept  dressed  up  like  a  doll,  and  com¬ 
pany  and  visitors  used  to  praise  me.  There  was  a  garden 
opening  from  the  saloon  windows;  and  there  I  used  to  play 
hide-and-go-seek  under  the  orange  trees  with  my  brothers 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY. 


86? 


and  sisters.  I  went  to  a  convent  and  there  I  learned  music, 
French,  and  embroidery  and  what  not;  and  when  I  was  four¬ 
teen  I  came  out  to  my  father's  funeral.  Fie  died  very  sud¬ 
denly,  and  when  the  property  came  to  be  settled  they  found 
that  there  was  scarcely  enough  to  cover  the  debts;  and  when 
the  creditors  took  an  inventory  of  the  property  I  was  set 
down  in  it.  My  mother  was  a  slave  woman  and  my  father 
had  always  meant  to  set  me  free;  but  he  had  not  done  it, 
and  so  1  was  set  down  in  the  list.  I'd  always  known  wrho  I 
was,  but  never  thought  much  about  it.  Nobody  ever  expects 
that  a  strong,  healthy  man  is  a-going  to  die.  My  father  was  a 
well  man  only  four  hours  before  he  died; — it  was  one  of  the 
first  cholera  cases  in  New  Orleans.  The  day  after  the  funeral 
my  father's  wife  took  her  children  and  went  up  to  her 
father's  plantation.  I  thought  they  treated  me  strangely, 
but  didn't  know.  There  was  a  young  lawyer  whom  they  left 
to  settle  the  business;  and  he  came  every  day,  and  was  about 
the  house,  and  spoke  very  politely  to  me.  He  brought  with 
him,  one  day,  a  young  man,  whom  I  thought  the  handsomest 
I  had  ever  seen.  I  shall  never  forget  that  evening.  I  walked 
with  him  in  the  garden.  I  was  lonesome  and  full  of  sorrow, 
and  he  was  so  kind  and  gentle  to  me;  and  he  told  me  that  he 
had  seen  me  before  I  went  to  the  convent,  and  that  he  had 
loved  me  a  great  while,  and  that  he  would  be  my  friend  and 
protector;  in  short,  though  he  didn't  tell  me,  he  had  paid 
two  thousand  dollars  for  me,  and  I  was  his  property,— I  be¬ 
came  his  willingly,  for  I  loved  him.  Loved!"  said  the  woman, 
stopping.  “  Oh,  how  I  did  love  that  man!  How  I  love  him 
now, — and  always  shall  while  I  breathe!  He  was  so  beauti¬ 
ful,  so  high,  so  noble!  He  put  me  into  a  beautiful  house, 
with  servants,  horses  and  carriages,  and  furniture,  and 
dresses.  Everything  that  money  could  buy,  he  gave  me;  but 
I  didn't  set  any  value  on  all  that, — I  only  cared  for  him.  I 
loved  him  better  than  my  God  and  my  own  soul;  and,  if  I 
tried,  I  couldn't  do  any  other  way  from  -what  he  wanted 
me  to. 

“  I  wanted  only  one  thing,— I  did  want  him  to  marry  me. 
I  thought,  if  he  loved  me  as  he  said  he  did,  and  if  I  was  what 
he  seemed  to  think  I  was,  he  would  be  willing  to  marry  me 
and  set  me  free.  But  he  convinced  me  that  it  would  be  im¬ 
possible;  and  he  told  me  that  if  we  were  only  faithful  to  each 
other  it  was  marriage  before  God.  If  that  is  true,  wasn’t  I 
that  man's  wife?  Wasn't  I  faithful?  For  seven  years  didn’t 


ms 


UNCLE  tom's  cabin;  oe, 

I  study  every  look  and  motion  end  only  live  and  breathe  to 
please  him?  He  had  the  yellow  fever,  and  for  twenty  days 
and  nights  I  watched  with  him.  I  alone, — and  gave  him  all 
his  medicine,  and  did  everything  for  him;  and  then  he  called 
me  his  good  angel,  and  said  I'd  saved  his  life.  We  had  two 
beautiful  children.  The  first  was  a  boy  and  we  called  him 
Henry.  He  was  the  image  of  his  father,- — he  had  such  beau¬ 
tiful  eyes,  such  a  forehead,  and  his  hair  hung  in  curls  ail 
around  it;  and  he  had  all  his  father's  spirit,  and  his  talent, 
too.  Little  Elise,  he  said,  looked  like  me.  He  used  to  tell  me 
that  I  was  the  most  beautiful  woman  in  Louisiana,  he  was  so 
proud  of  me  and  the  children.  He  used  to  love  to  have  me 
dress  them  up  and  take  them  and  me  about  in  an  open  car¬ 
riage  and  hear  the  remarks  that  people  would  make  on  us; 
and  he  used  to  fill  my  ears  constantly  with  the  fine  things 
that  were  said  in  praise  of  me  and  the  children.  Oh,  those 
were  happy  days!  I  thought  I  was  as  hapny  as  anyone  could 
be;  but  then  there  came  evil  times.  He  had  a  cousin  come  to 
New  Orleans  who  was  his  particular  friend,— -he  thought  all 
the  world  of  him;— but,  from  the  first  time  I  saw  him,  I 
couldn't  tell  why,  I  dreaded  him;  for  I  felt  sure  he  was  going 
to  bring  misery  on  us.  He  got  Henry  to  going  out  with  him, 
and  often  he  would  not  come  home  nights  till  two  or  three 
o'clock.  I  did  not  dare  say  a  word;  for  Henry  was  so  high- 
spirited  I  was  afraid  to.  He  got  him  to  the  gaming-houses; 
and  he  was  one  of  the  sort  that,  wdien  he  once  got  a-going, 
there  was  no  holding  back.  And  then  he  introduced  him  to 
another  lady,  and  I  saw  soon  that  his  heart  was  gone  from 
me.  He  never  told  me,  hut  I  saw  it, —I  knew  it,  day 
after  day,- — I  felt  my  heart  breaking,  but  I  could  not  say  a 
word!  At  this  the  wretch  offered  to  buy  me  and  the  children 
of  Henry  to  clear  off  his  gambling  debts,  which  stood  in  the 
way  of  his  marrying  as  he  wished;— and  he  sold  us.  He  told 
me  one  day  that  he  had  business  in  the  country  and  should 
be  gone  two  or  three  weeks.  He  spoke  kinder  than  usual 
and  said  he  should  come  back,  but  it  didn't  deceive  me.  I 
knew  that  the  time  had  come.  I  was  just  like  one  turned 
into  stone;  I  couldn't  speak,  nor  shed  a  tear.  He  kissed  me, 
and  kissed  the  children,  a  good  many  times  and  went  out. 
I  saw  him  get  on  his  horse  and  I  watched  him  till  he  was 
quite  out  of  sight;  and  then  I  fell  down  and  fainted. 

“  Then  he  came,  the  cursed  wretch!  he  came  to  take  pos¬ 
session.  He  told  me  that  he  had  bought  me  and  my  children; 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY.  38t 

and  showed  me  the  papers.  I  cursed  him  before  God*  and 
told  him  Pd  die  sooner  than  live  with  him. 

“‘just  as  you  please/  said  he;  ‘but  if  you  don’t  behave 
reasonably  I’ll  sell  both  the  children  where  you  shall  never 
see  them  again.’  He  told  me  that  he  always  had  meant  to 
have  me  from  the  first  time  he  saw  me;  and  that  he  had 
drawn  Henry  on  and  got  him  in  debt  on  purpose  to  make 
him  willing  to  sell  me;  that  he  got  him  in  love  with  another 
woman;  and  that  I  might  know,  after  all  that,  that  he  should 
not  give  up  for  a  few  airs  and  tears  and  things  of  that  sort. 

“  I  gave  up,  for  my  hands  were  tied.  He  had  my  children; 
whenever  I  resisted  his  will  anywhere  he  would  talk  about 
selling  them,  and  he  made  me  as  submissive  as  he  desired 
Oh,  what  a  life  it  was!  to  live  with  my  heart  breaking  every 
day,— to  keep  on,  on,  on,  loving  when  it  was  only  misery; 
and  to  be  bound  body  and  soul  to  one  I  hated.  I  used  to  love 
to  read  to  Henry,  to  play  to  him,  to  waltz  with  him,  and 
sing  to  him;  but  everything  I  did  for  this  one  wras  a  perfect 
drag,— yet  I  was  afraid  to  refuse  anything.  He  was  very 
imperious  and  harsh  to  the  children.  Elise  was  a  timid  lit¬ 
tle  thing;  but  Henry  was  bold  and  high-spirited  like  hm 
father,  and  he  had  never  been  brought  under  in  the  least 
by  anyone.  He  was  always  finding  fault  and  quarreling  with 
him;  and  I  used  to  live  in  daily  fear  and  dread.  I  tried  to 
make  the  child  respectful;— I  tried  to  keep  them  apart,  for 
I  held  on  to  those  children  like  death:  but  it  did  no  good 
He  sold  both  those  children.  He  took  me  to  ride  one  day  and 
when  I  came  home  they  were  nowdiere  to  be  found!  He  told 
me  he  had  sold  them;  he  showed  me  the  money,  the  price  of 
their  blood.  Then  it  seemed  as  if  all  good  forsook  me.  I 
raved  and  cursed, — cursed  God  and  man;  and,  for  a  while,  I 
believe  he  really  was  afraid  of  me.  But  he  didn’t  give  up  so. 
He  told  me  that  my  children  were  sold,  but  whether  I  ever 
saw  their  faces  again  depended  on  him;  and  that  if  I  wasn’t 
quiet  they  should  smart  for  it.  Well,  you  can  do  anything; 
with  a  woman  when  you’ve  got  her  children.  He  made  me 
submit;  he  made  me  be  peaceable;  he  flattered  me  with  hopes 
that  perhaps  he  would  buy  them  back;  and  so  things  went  m 
a  week  or  two.  One  day  I  was  out  walking  and  passed  by  the 
calaboose;  I  saw  a  crowd  about  the  gate  and  heard  a  child’s 
voice,— and  suddenly  my  Henry  broke  away  from  two  m 
three  men  who  were  holding  him  and  ran  screaming  and 
caught  my  dress.  They  came  up  to  him,  swearing  chreadf ' uiijgy 


370 


UNCLE  TOM?S  CABIN  ;  OB, 


and  one  man,  whose  face  I  shall  never  forget,  told  Mm  that 
he  wouldn’t  get  away  so;  that  he  was  going  with  him  into  the 
calaboose,  and  he’d  get  a  lesson  there  he’d  never  forget.  I 
tried  to  beg  and  plead,— they  only  laughed;  the  poor  boy 
screamed  and  looked  into  my  face  and  held  on  to  me  until, 
in  tearing  him  off,  they  tore  the  skirts  of  my  dress  halfway; 
and  they  carried  him  in,  screaming  ‘  Mother!  mother! 
mother!  ’  There  was  one  man  stood  there  seemed  to  pity  me. 
I  offered  him  ail  the  money  I  had  if  he’d  only  interfere.  Tie 
shook  his  head  and  said  that  the  man  said  the  boy  had  been 
impudent  and  disobedient  ever  since  he  bought  him;  that 
he  was  going  to  break  him  in  once  for  all.  I  turned  and  ran; 
and  every  step  of  the  way  I  thought  that  I  heard  him 
scream.  I  got  into  the  house;  ran,  all  out  of  breath,  to 
the  parlor,  where  I  found  Butler.  I  told  him  and  begged 
him  to  go  and  interfere.  He  only  laughed,  and  told  me  the 
boy  had  got  his  deserts.  He’d  got  to  be  broken  in.— the 
sooner  the  better;  ‘  what  did  I  expect?  ’  he  asked. 

“  It  seemed  to  me  something  in  my  head  snapped  at  that 
moment.  I  felt  dizzy  and  furious.  I  remember  seeing  a 
great,  sharp  bowie-knife  on  the  table;  I  remember  something 
about  catching  it  and  flying  upon  him;  and  then  all  grew  dark 
and  I  didn’t  know  any  more- — not  for  days  and  days. 

“  When  I  came  to  myself  I  was  in  a  nice  room, — but  not 
mine.  An  old  black  woman  tended  me;  and  a  doctor  came  to 
see  me,  and  there  was  a  great  deal  of  care  taken  of  me. 
After  a  while  I  found  that  he  had  gone  away  and  left  me  at 
this  house  to  be  sold;  and  that’s  why  they  took  such  pains 
with  me. 

“  I  didn’t  mean  to  get  well,  and  hoped  I  shouldn’t;  but  in 
spite  of  me  the  fever  went  off  and  I  grew  healthy  and  finally 
got  up.  Then  they  made  me  dress  up  every  day;  and  gen¬ 
tlemen  used  to  come  in  and  stand  and  smoke  their  cigars, 
and  look  at  me,  and  ask  questions  and  debate  my  price.  I 
was  so  gloomy  and  silent  that  none  of  them  wanted  me. 
They  threatened  to  whip  me  if  I  wasn’t  gaver  and  didn’t  take 
some  pains  to  make  myself  agreeable.  At  length  one  day 
came  a  gentleman  named  Stuart.  He  seemed  to  have  some 
feeling  for  me;  he  saw  that  something  dreadful  was  on  my 
heart,  and  he  came  to  see  me  alone  a  great  many  times,  and 
finally  persuaded  me  to  tell  him.  He  bought  me  at  last  and 
promised  to  do  all  he  could  to  find  and  buy  back  my  children. 
He  went  '  the  hotel  where  my  Henry  was;  they  told  him  he 


LIFE  AMOtfO  THE  LOWLY. 


an 


fead  been  sold  to  a  planter  up  on  Pearl  Elver;  that  was  the 
last  that  I  ever  heard.  Then  he  found  where  my  daughter 
was;  an  old  woman  was  keeping  her.  He  offered  an  immense 
sum  for  her,  but  they  would  not  sell  her.  Butler  found  out 
that  it  was  for  me  he  wanted  her;  and  he  sent  me  word  that 
I  should  never  have  her.  Captain  Stuart  was  very  kind  to 
me;  he  had  a  splendid  plantation,  and  took  me  to  it.  In  the 
course  of  a  year  I  had  a  son  born.  Oh,  that  child!— -how  I 
loved  it!  How  just  like  my  poor  Henry  the  little  thing 
looked!  But  I  had  made  up  my  mind,— yes,  I  had.  I  would 
never  again  let  a  child  live  to  grow  up!  I  took  the  little  fel¬ 
low  in  my  arms,  when  he  was  two  weeks  old,  and  kissed  him, 
and  cried  over  him;  and  then  I  gave  him  laudanum,  and  held 
him  close  to  my  bosom  while  he  slept  to  death.  How  I 
mourned  and  cried  over  it!  and  who  ever  dreamed  that  it  was 
anything  but  a  mistake  that  had  made  me  give  it  the  lauda¬ 
num?  but  it’s  one  of  the  few  things  that  Pm  glad  of  now. 
I  am  not  sorry  to  this  day;  he,  at  least,  is  out  of  pain.  What 
better  than  death  could  I  give  him,  poor  child!  After  a 
while  the  cholera  came,  and  Captain  Stuart  died;  everybody 
died  that  wanted  to  live, — and  I,  though  I  went  down  to 
deaths  door  —I  lived!  Then  I  was  sold,  and  passed  from 
hand  to  hand,  till  I  grew  faded  and  wrinkled,  and  I  had  a 
fever;  and  then  this  wretch  bought  me  and  brought  me  here, 
— and  here  I  am!  ” 

The  woman  stopped.  She  had  hurried  on  through  her 
story,  with  a  wild,  passionate  utterance;  sometimes  seeming 
to  address  it  to  Tom  and  sometimes  speaking  as  in  a  so¬ 
liloquy.  So  vehement  and  overpowering  was  the  force  with 
which  she  spoke  that,  for  a  season  Tom  was  beguiled  even 
from  the  pain  of  his  wounds,  and  raising  himself  on  one 
elbow,  watched  her  as  she  paced  restlessly  up  and  down,  her 
long  black  hair  swaying  heavily  about  her  as  she  moved. 

“  You  tell  me,”  she  said  after  a  pause,  “  that  there  is  a 
God,— a  God  that  looks  down  and  sees  all  these  things. 
Maybe  it’s  so.  The  sisters  in  the  convent  used  to  tell  me  of 
a  day  of  judgment,  when  everything  is  coming  to  light:— 
won’t  there  be  vengeance  then! 

“  They  think  it’s  nothing  what  we  suffer,— nothing  what 
our  children  suffer!  It’s  all  a  small  matter;  yat  I’ve  walked 
the  streets  when  it  seemed  as  if  I  had  misery  enough  in  my 
heart  to  sink  the  city.  I’ve  wished  the  houses  would  fall  on 
inel  or  the  stones  sink  under  me.  Yes!  and  in  the  ;  Jgment 


8 *7%  UNCLE  tom’s  cabin;  OB, 

day  I  will  stand  up  before  God,  a  witness  against  those  that 
have  ruined  me  and  my  children,  body  and  soul! 

“  When  I  was  a  gin  I  thought  I  was  religious;  I  used  to 
love  God  and  prayer.  Now  Fm  a  lost  soul,  pursued  by  devils 
that  torment  me  day  and  night;  they  keep  pushing  me  on 
and  on,— and  Fll  do  it,  too,  some  of  these  days!  ”  she  said, 
clenching  her  hand,  while  an  insane  light  glanced  in  her 
heavy  black  eyes.  “  I’ll  send  him  where  he  belongs,— a  short 
way,  too, — one  of  these  nights,  if  they  burn  me  alive  for  it! ” 
A  wild,  loud  laugh  rang  through  the  deserted  room  and  ended 
in  a  hysteric  sob;  she  threw  herself  on  the  floor  in  convulsive 
sobbings  and  struggles. 

In  a  few  moments  the  frenzy  fit  seemed  to  pass  off;  she 
rose  slowly  and  seemed  to  collect  herself. 

“  Can  I  do  anything  more  for  you,  my  poor  fellow?  ”  she 
said,  approaching  where  Tom  lay;  “  shall  I  give  you  some 
more  water?  ” 

There  was  a  graceful  and  compassionate  sweetness  in  her 
voice  and  manner,  as  she  said  this,  that  formed  a  strange 
contrast  with  the  former  wildness. 

Tom  drank  the  water,  and  looked  earnestly  and  pitifully 
into  her  face. 

“  Oh,  missis,  I  wish  you'd  go  to  Him  that  can  give  you  liv¬ 
ing  waters! 99 

"Go  to  Him!  Where  is  He?  Who  is  He?”  said  Gassy. 

“  Him  that  you  read  of  to  me,— the  Lord/’ 

“  I  used  to  see  the  picture  of  Him  over  the  altar  when  I 
was  a  girl/’  said  Gassy,  her  dark  eyes  fixing  themselves  in  an 
expression  of  mournful  reverie;  “but  He  isn’t  here!  there’s 
nothing  here  but  sin  and  long,  long,  long  despair!  Oh!” 
She  laid  her  hand  on  her  breast  and  drew  in  her  breath,  as 
if  to  lif  fc  a  heavy  weight. 

Tom  looked  as  if  he  would  speak  again;  but  she  cut  him 
short  with  a  decided  gesture. 

“  Don’t  talk,  my  poor  fellow.  Try  to  sleep  if  you  can."’ 
And,  placing  water  in  his  reach  and  making  whatever  little 
arrangements  for  his  comfort  she  could,  Gassy  left  the  shed. 


tm  AMONG  THE  tOWLf, 


SlfB 


CEAPTEE  XXXV. 

THE  TOKENS. 

^  And  slight,  withal,  may  be  the  things  that  bring 
Back  on  the  heart  the  weight  which  it  would  fling 
Aside  forever ;  it  may  be  a  sound, 

A  flower,  the  wind,  the  ocean,  which  shall  wound, — 

Striking  the  electric  chain  wherewith  we're  darkly  bound/* 

— Ghilde  Harold's  Pilgrimage,  Can.  4. 

The  sitting  room  of  Legree’s  establishment  was  a  large5 
long  room,  with  a  wide,  ample  fireplace.  It  had  once  been 
hung  with  a  showy  and  expensive  paper,  which  now  hung 
moldering,  torn,  and  discolored  from  the  damp  walls.  The 
place  had  that  peculiar,  sickening,  unwholesome  smell,  com¬ 
pounded  of  mingled  damp,  dirt,  and  decav,  which  one  often 
notices  in  close  old  houses.  The  wall-paper  was  defaced  in 
spots  by  slops  of  beer  and  wine;  or  garnished  with  chalk 
memorandums,  and  long  sums  footed  up,  as  if  somebody  had 
been  practicing  arithmetic  there.  In  the  fireplace  stood  a 
brazier  full  of  burning  charcoal;  for,  though  the  weather  was 
not  cold,  the  evenings  always  seemed  damp  and  chilly  in  that 
great  room;  and  Legree,  moreover,  wanted  a  place  to  light 
his  cigars,  and  heat  his  water  for  punch.  The  ruddy  glare  of 
the  charcoal  displayed  the  confused  and  unpromising  aspect 
of  the  room, — saddles,  bridles,  several  sorts  of  harness,  rid¬ 
ing-whips,  overcoats,  and  various  articles  of  clothing,  scat¬ 
tered  up  and  down  the  room  in  confused  variety;  and  the 
dogs,  of  whom  we  have  before  spoken,  had  encamped  them¬ 
selves  among  them  to  suit  their  own  taste  and  convenience. 

Legree  was  just  mixing  himself  a  tumbler  of  punch,  pour¬ 
ing  his  hot  water  from  a  cracked  and  broken-nosed  pitcher, 
grumbling,  as  he  did  so: 

“  Plague  on  that  Sambo,  to  kick  up  this  yer  row  between 
me  and  the  new  hands!  The  fellow  won’t  he  fit  to  work  for 
a  week,  now,— right  in  the  press  of  the  season! ” 

“Yes,  just  like  you,”  said  a  voice  behind  his  chair.  It 
was  the  woman  Gassy,  who  had  stolen  upon  his  soliloquy. 

“Hah!  you  she-devil!  you’ve  come  back,  have  you?” 

“  Yes,  I  have,”  she  said  coolly;  “  come  to  have  my  own 
.way,  too!  ” 

“  You  lie,  you  jade!  I’ll  be  up  to  my  word.  Either  behavo 


374  UNCLE  tom’s  CABIN  £  OB, 

yourself,  or  stay  down  to  the  quarters,  and  fare  and  work 
with  the  rest.” 

“  Fd  rather,  ten  the  usand  times,”  said  the  woman,  “  live 
in  the  dirtiest  hole  at  the  quarters,  than  be  under  your 
hoof!  ” 

“  But  you  are  under  my  hoof,  for  all  that,”  said  he,  turning 
upon  her  with  a  savage  grin;  “that’s  one  comfort.  So,  sit 
down  here  on  my  knee,  my  dear,  and  hear  to  reason,”  said  he, 
laying  hold  on  her  wrist. 

“  Simon  Legree,  take  care!  ”  said  the  woman,  with  a  sharp 
flash  of  her  eye,  a  glance  so  wild  and  insane  in  its  light  as  to 
be  almost  appalling.  “You’re  afraid  of  me,  Simon,”  she 
said  deliberately;  “  and  you’ve  reason  to  be!  But  be  careful, 
for  I’ve  got  the  devil  in  me!  ” 

The  last  words  she  whispered  in  a  hissing  tone,  close  to 
his  ear. 

“  Get  out!  I  believe,  to  my  soul,  you  have!  ”  said  Legree, 
pushing  her  from  him,  and  looking  uncomfortably  at  hen 
“  After  all,  Gassy,”  he  said,  “  why  can’t  you  be  friends  with 
me,  as  you  used  "to?  ” 

“  Used  to!  ”  said  she,  bitterly.  She  stopped  short,— a 
world  of  choking  feelings,  rising  in  her  heart,  kept  her 
silent. 

Gassy  had  always  kept  over  Legree  the  kind  of  influence 
that  a  strong,  impassioned  woman  can  ever  keep  over  the 
most  brutal  man;  but,  of  late,  she  had  grown  more  and  more 
irritable  and  restless,  under  the  hideous  yoke  of  her  servi¬ 
tude,  and  her  irritability  at  times  broke  out  into  raving  in¬ 
sanity;  and  this  liability  made  her  a  sort  of  object  of  dread 
to  Legree,  who  had  that  superstitious  horror  of  insane  per- 
sons  which  is  common  to  coarse  and  uninstructed  minds. 
When  Legree  brought  Emmeline  to  the  house  all  the  smolder¬ 
ing  embers  of  womanly  feeling  flashed  up  in  the  worn  heart 
of  Gassy,  and  she  took  part  with  the  girl;  and  a  fierce  quar¬ 
rel  ensued  between  her  and  Legree.  Legree,  in  a  fury,  swore 
she  should  be  put  to  field  service,  if  she  would  not  be  peace¬ 
able.  Gassy  with  proud  scorn  declared  she  would  go  to  the 
field.  And  she  worked  there  one  day,  as  we  have  described, 
to  show  how  perfectly  she  scorned  the  threat. 

Legree  was  secretly  uneasy  all  day;  for  Gassy  had  an  in¬ 
fluence  over  him  from  which  he  could  not  free  himself, 
When  she  presented  her  basket  at  the  scales  he  had  hope! 
for  some  concession,  and  addressed  her  in  a  sort  of  half-con* 


IJFI2  AMONG  THE  LOWLY*  375 

ciliatory,  half-scornful  tone;  and  she  had  answered  with  the 
bitterest  contempt. 

The  outrageous  treatment  of  poor  Tom  had  roused  her 
still  more;  and  she  had  followed  Legree  to  the  house,  with 
no  particular  intention  but  to  upbraid  him  fw  his  brutality. 

“  I  wish.  Gassy,”  said  Legree,  “  you’d  behave  yourself  de¬ 
cently.” 

“  You  talk  about  behaving  decently!  And  what  have  you 
been  doing? — you,  who  haven’t  even,  sense  enough  to  keep 
from  spoiling  one  of  your  best  hands,  right  in  the  most 
pressing  season,  just  for  your  devilish  temper!  ” 

“  I  was  a  fool,  that’s  a  fact,  to  let  any  such  brangle  come 
up,”  said  Legree;  “  but  when  the  boy  set  up  his  will  he  had 
to  be  broke  in.” 

“  I  reckon  you  won’t  break  him  in!  ” 

“  Won’t  I?”  said  Legree,  rising  passionately.  “  I’d  like 
to  know  if  I  won’t!  He’ll  be  the  first  nigger  that  ever  came 
it  round  me!  I’ll  break  every  bone  in  his  body,  but  he  shall 
give  up!  ” 

Just  then  the  door  opened,  and  Sambo  entered.  He  came 
forward,  bowing,  and  holding  out  something  in  a  paper. 

“ What’s  that,  you  dog?”  said  Legree. 

“  It’s  a  witch  thing,  mas’r!  ” 

“  A  what?” 

“  Something  that  niggers  gets  from  witches.  Keeps  ’em 
from  feelin’  when  they’s  flogged.  He  had  it  tied  round  his 
neck  with  a  black  string.” 

Legree,  like  most  godless  and  cruel  men,  was  supersti¬ 
tious.  He  took  the  paper  and  opened  it  uneasily. 

There  dropped  out  of  it  a  silver  dollar,  and  a  long,  shining 
curl  of  fair  hair,— hair  which,  like  a  living  thing,  twined  it¬ 
self  round  Legree’s  fingers. 

ts  Damnation!  ”  he  screamed,  in  a  sudden  passion,  stamp¬ 
ing  on  the  floor,  and  pulling  furiously  at  the  hair,  as  if  it 
burned  him.  “  Where  did  this  come  from?  Take  it  off!— 
burn  it  up!— burn  it  up!  ”  he  screamed,  tearing  it  off,  and 
throwing  it  into  the  charcoal.  “  What  did  you  bring  it  to  me 
for?” 

Sambo  stood,  with  his  heavy  mouth  wide  open,  and  aghast 
with  wonder;  and  Gassy,  who  was  preparing  to  leave  the 
apartment,  stopped  and  looked  at  him  in  perfect  amazement. 

“  Don’t  you;  bring  me  any  more  of  your  devilish  things!  ” 
laid  he.  shaking  his  fist  at  Sambo,  who  retreated  hastily  to- 


876 


UNCLE  tom’s  cabin  ;  OR, 

ward  the  door;  and,  picking  up  the  silver  dollar,  he  sent  it 
smashing  through  the  window-pane  out  into  the  dark¬ 
ness. 

Sambo  was  glad  to  make  his  escape.  When  lie  was  gone 
Legree  seemed  a  little  ashamed  of  his  fit  of  alarm.  He  sat 
doggedly  down  in  his  chair,  and  began  sullenly  sipping  his 

tumbler  of  punch. 

Gassy  prepared  herself  for  going  out,  unobserved  by  him; 
and  slipped  away  to  minister  to  poor  Tom,  as  we  have  already 
related*. 

And  wrhat  was  the  matter  with  Legree?  and  what  was  there 
in  a  simple  curl  of  fair  hair  to  appall  that  brutal  man,  fa¬ 
miliar  with  every  form  of  cruelty?  To  answer  this  we  must 
carry  the  reader  backward  in  his  history.  Hard  and  repro¬ 
bate  as  the  godless  man  seemed  now,  there  had  been  a  time 
when  he  had  been  rocked  on  the  bosom  of  a  mother,— cradled 
with  prayers  and  pious  hymns, — his  now  seared  brow  be¬ 
dewed  with  the  waters  of  holy  baptism.  In  early  childhood 
a  fair-haired  woman  had  led  him,  at  the  sound  of  the  Sabbath 
hell,  to  worship  and  to  pray.  Far  in  New  England  that 
mother  had  trained  her  only  son,  with  long,  unwearied  love, 
and  patient  prayers.  Born  of  a  hard-tempered  sire,  on  whom 
that  gentle  woman  had  wasted  a  world  of  unvalued  love, 
Legree  had  followed  in  the  steps  of  his  father.  Boisterous, 
unruly,  and  tyrannical,  he  despised  all  her  counsel,  and  would 
none  of  her  reproof;  and  at  an  early  age,  broke  from  her, 
to  seek  his  fortunes  at  sea.  He  never  came  home  but  once 
after;  and  then  his  mother,  with  the  yearning  of  a  heart  that 
must  love  something,  and  has  nothing  else  to  love,  clung  to 
him,  and  sought,  with  passionate  prayers  and  entreaties,  to 
win  him  from  a  life  of  sin,  to  his  soul’s  eternal  good. 

That  was  Legree’s  day  of  grace;  then  good  angels  called 
him;  then  he  was  almost  persuaded,  and  mercy  held  him  by 
the  hand.  His  heart  inly  relented —there  was  a  conflict,— 
but  sin  got  the  victory,  and  he  set  all  the  force  of  his  rough 
nature  against  the  conviction  of  his  conscience.  He  drank 
and  swore, — was  wilder  and  more  brutal  than  ever.  And  one 
night  when  his  mother,  in  the  last  agony  of  her  despair, 
knelt  at  his  feet,  he  spurned  her  from  him, — threw  her  sense¬ 
less  on  the  floor,  and,  with  brutal  curses,  fled  to  his  ship. 
The  next  Legree  heard  of  his  mother  was  when,  one  night 
as  he  was  carousing  among  drunken  companions,  a  letter  was 
put  into  his  hand.  He  opened  it,  and  a  lock  of  long,  curl- 


877 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY. 

lug  hair  fell  from  it  and  twined  about  his  fingers.  The  letter 
fold  him  his  mother  was  dead,  and  that  dying,  she  blessed 
and  forgave  him. 

There  is  a  dread,  unhallowed  necromancy  of  evil,  that 
turns  things  sweetest  and  holiest  to  phantoms  of  horror  and 
affright.  That  pale,  loving  mother, — her  dying  prayers, 
her  forgiving  love, — wrought  in  that  demoniac  heart  of  sin 
only  as  a  damning  sentence,  bringing  with  it  a  fearful  look¬ 
ing-for  of  judgment  and  fiery  indignation.  Legree  burned 
the  hair,  and  burned  the  letter;  and  when  he  saw  them  hiss¬ 
ing  and  crackling  in  the  flame,  inly  shuddered  as  he  thought 
of  everlasting  fires.  He  tried  to  drink,  and  revel,  and  swear 
away  the  memory;  but  often  in  the  deep  night,  whose  sol¬ 
emn  stillness  arraigns  the  bad  soul  in  forced  communion 
with  herself,  he  had  seen  that  pale  mother  rising  by  his  bed¬ 
side,  and  felt  the  soft  twuning  of  that  hair  around  his  fingers, 
till  the  cold  sweat  would  roll  down  his  face,  and  he  would 
spring  from  his  bed  in  horror.  Ye  who  have  wondered  to 
hear,  in  the  same  evangel,  that  God  is  love,  and  that  God  is  a 
consuming  fire,  see  ye  not  how  to  the  soul  resolved  in  evil, 
perfect  love  is  the  most  fearful  torture,  the  seal  and  sentence 
of  the  direst  despair? 

“  Blast  it! 99  said  Legree  to  himself,  as  he  sipped  his  liquor; 
“  where  did  he  get  that?  If  it  didn’t  look  just  like— whoo! 
I  thought  I’d  forgot  that.  Curse  me,  if  I  think  there’s  any 
such  thing  as  forgetting  anything,  anyhow,— hang  it!  I'm 
lonesome!  I  mean  to  call  Em.  She  hates  me— the  monkey ! 
I  don’t  care, — -I’ll  make  her  come! 99 

Legree  stepped  out  into  a  large  entry,  which  went  upstairs, 
by  what  had  formerly  been  a  superb  winding  staircase;  but 
the  passage-way  w’as  dirty  and  dreary,  encumbered  with  boxes 
and  unsightly  litter.  The  stairs,  uncarpeted,  seemed  winding 
up  in  the  gloom,  to  nobody  knew  where!  The  pale  moonlight 
streamed  through  a  shattered  fanlight  over  the  door;  the  air 
was  unwholesome  and  chilly,  like  that  of  a  vault, 

Legree  stopped  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  and  heard  a  voice 
singing.  It  seemed  strange  and  ghost-like  in  that  dreary  old 
house,  perhaps  because  of  the  already  tremulous  state  of  his 
nerves.  Hark!  what  is  it? 

A  wild,  pathetic  voice  chants  a  hymn  common  among  the 
slaves: 

"  Oh,  there’ll  be  mourning,  mourning,  mourning. 

Oh,  there’ll  be  mourning,  at  the  judgment-seat  of  Christ  i  ” 


878  uncle  tom’s  cabin  ;  ob, 

“Blast  the  girl!  ”  said  Legree.  “  Til  choke  her.  Em!  Em!” 
he  called  harshly;  but  only  a  mocking  echo  from  the  walls 
answered  him.  The  sweet  voice  still  sung  on: 

“Parents  and  children  there  shall  part  ! 

Parents  and  children  there  shall  part  1 
Shall  part  to  meet  no  more  !  ” 

And  clear  and  loud  swelled  through  the  empty  halls  the 
refrain: 

14  Oh,  there'll  be  mourning,  mournings  mourning, 

Oh>  there’ll  be  mourning,  at  the  juagment-seat  of  Christ !  ” 

Legree  stopped.  He  would  have  been  ashamed  to  tell  of 
it,  but  large  drops  of  sweat  stood  on  his  forehead,  his  heart 
beat  heavy  and  thick  with  fear;  he  even  thought  he  saw  some¬ 
thing  white  rising  and  glimmering  in  the  gloom  before  him, 
and  shuddered  to  think  what  if  the  form  of  his  dead  mother 
should  suddenly  appear  to  him. 

“  I  know  one  thing, ”  he  said  to  himself,  as  he  stumbled 
back  into  the  sitting  room,  and  sat  down;  “  Fll  let  that  fel¬ 
low  alone  after  this!  What  did  I  want  of  his  cussed  paper? 
I  believe  I  am  bewitched,  sure  enough!  I’ve  been  shivering 
and  sweating  ever  since!  Where  did  he  get  that  hair?  It 
couldn’t  have  been  that!  I  burnt  that  up,  I  know  I  did!  It 
would  be  a  joke  if  hair  could  rise  from  the  dead!  ” 

Ah,  Legree,  that  golden  tress  was  charmed;  each  hair  in 
it  had  a  spell  of  terror  and  remorse  for  thee,  and  was  used 
by  a  Mightier  Power  to  bind  thy  cruel  hands  from  inflicting 
uttermost  evil  on  the  helpless! 

“  I  say,”  said  Legree,  stamping  and  whistling  to  the  dogs, 
“wake  up,  some  of  you,  and  keep  me  company!”  but  the 
dogs  only  opened  one  eye  at  him  sleepily,  and  closed  it  again. 

“  I’ll  have  Sambo  and  Quimbo  up  here,  to  sing  and  dance 
one  of  their  hell  dances,  and  to  keep  off  these  horrid  no¬ 
tions,”  said  Legree;  and  putting  on  his  hat  he  went  on  to  the 
veranda  and  blew  a  horn  with  which  he  commonly  summoned 
his  two  sable  drivers. 

Legree  was  often  wont,  when  in  a  gracious  humor,  to  get 
these  two  worthies  into  his  sitting  room,  and,  after  warming 
them  up  with  whisky,  amuse  himself  by  setting  them  to  sing¬ 
ing,  dancing,  or  fighting,  as  the  humor  took  him. 

It  was  between  one  and  two  o’clock  at  night,  as  Cassv  was 
returning  from  her  ministrations  to  poor  Tom,  that  she 
Jxeard  the  sound  of  wild  shrieking,  whooping,  hallooing,  and 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY. 


879 


singing  from  the  sitting  room,  mingled  with  the  barking  of 
dogs,  and  other  symptoms  of  general  uproar. 

She  came  up  on  the  veranda  steps  and  looked  in.  Legree 
and  both  the  drivers,  in  a  state  of  furious  intoxication,  were 
singing,  whooping,  upsetting  chairs,  and  making  all  manner 
of  ludicrous  and  horrid  grimaces  at  each  other. 

She  rested  her  small,  slender  hand  on  the  window-blind, 
and  looked  fixedly  at  them; — there  was  a  world  of  anguish, 
scorn,  and  fierce  bitterness  in  her  black  eyes  as  she  did  so. 
“  Would  it  be  a  sin  to  rid  the  world  of  such  a  wretch?  ”  she 
said  to  herself. 

She  turned  hurriedly  away,  and,  passing  round  to  a  back 
door,  glided  upstairs  and  tapped  at  Emmeline’s  door. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

EMMELINE  AND  CASSY. 

Cassy  entered  the  room  and  found  Emmeline  sitting,  pale 
with  fear,  in  the  furthest  corner  of  it.  As  she  came  in  the 
girl  started  up  nervously;  but  on  seeing  who  it  was,  rushed 
forward,  and,  catching  her  arm,  said,  “  Oh,  Cassy,  is  it  you? 

Pm  so  glad  you’ve  come!  I  was  afraid  it  was* -  Oh,  von 

don’t  know  what  a  horrid  noise  there  has  been  downstairs 
all  this  evening!  ” 

“  I  ought  to  know,”  said  Cassy  dryly.  “  I’ve  heard  it  often 
enough.” 

“  Oh,  Cassy!  do  tell  me,— couldn’t  we  get  away  from  this 
place?  I  don’t  care  where,— into  the  swamp  among  the 
snakes,— anywhere!  Couldn’t  we  get  somewhere  away  from 
here?” 

“  Nowhere  but  into  our  graves,”  said  Cassy. 

“  Did  you  ever  try?” 

“  I’ve  seen  enough  of  trying,  and  what  comes  of  it,”  said 
Cassy. 

“  I’d  be  willing  to  live  in  the  swamps,  and  gnaw  the  bark 
from  the  trees.  I  an’t  afraid  of  snakes!  I’d  rather  have  one 
near  me  than  him,”  said  Emmeline  eagerly. 

“  There  have  been  a  good  many  here  of  your  opinion,” 
said  Cassy;  “  but  you  couldn’t  stay  in  the  swamps, — you’d 
be  tracked  by  the  dogs,  and  brought  back,  and  then — - 
then-  ” 


380 


uncle  tom’s  cabin;  OB, 

“  What  would  he  do?  "  said  the  girl,  looking  with  breath¬ 
less  interest  into  her  face. 

“  What  ivouldn’t  he  do,  you'd  better  ask/’  said  Gassy. 
“  He's  learned  his  trade  well,  among  the  pirates  in  the  West 
Indies.  You  wouldn't  sleep  much,  if  I  should  tell  you  things 
I’ vo  seen, — things  that  he  tells  of,  sometimes,  for  good  jokes. 
I’ve  heard  screams  here  that  I  haven't  been  able  to  get  out 
of  my  head  for  weeks  and  weeks.  There's  a  place  way  out 
down  by  the  quarters,  where  you  can  see  a  black,  blasted 
tree,  and  the  ground  all  covered  with  black  ashes.  Ask  any¬ 
one  what  was  done  ther^,  and  see  if  they  will  dare  to  tell 
you." 

“  Oh,  what  do  you  mean?  " 

“  I  won't  tell  you.  I  hate  to  think  of  it.  And  I  tell  you 
the  Lord  only  knows  what  we  may  see  to-morrow,  if  that 
poor  fellow  holds  out  as  he’s  begun." 

“  Horrid!  "  said  Emmeline,  every  drop  of  blood  receding 
from  her  cheeks.  “  Oh,  Cassy,  do  tell  me  what  I 
shall  do!  " 

“  What  I've  done.  Do  the  best  you  can,  do  what  you 
must, — and  make  it  up  in  hating  and  cursing." 

“  He  wanted  to  make  me  drink  some  of  his  hateful 
brandy,"  said  Emmeline;  “  and  I  hate  it  so — — " 

“  You'd  better  drink,"  said  Cassy.  “  I  hated  it,  too;  and 
now  I  can't  live  without  it.  One  must  have  something, — - 
things  don't  look  so  dreadf  ul,  when  you  take  that." 

“  Mother  used  to  tell  me  never  to  touch  any  such  thing," 
said  Emmeline. 

“  Mother  told  you!"  said  Cassy,  with  a  thrilling  and  bit¬ 
ter  emphasis  on  the  word  “  mother."  “  WThat  use  is  it  for 
mothers  to  say  anything?  You  are  all  to  be  bought  and  paid 
for,  and  your  soul  belongs  to  whoever  gets  you.  That's  the 
way  it  goes.  I  say,  drink  brandy;  drink  all  you  can,  and 
it  'll  make  things  come  easier." 

“  Oh,  Cassy!  do  pity  me!" 

“  Pity  you!— don't  I?  Haven't  I  a  daughter,— Lord  knows 
where  she  is,  and  whose  she  is,  now, — going  the  way  her 
mother  went  before  her,  I  suppose,  and  that  her  children 
must  go  after  her!  There's  no  end  to  the  curse — forever!  " 

"I  wish  I'd  never  been  born!  "  said  Emmeline,  wringing 
her  hands. 

“  That's  an  old  wish  with  me said  Cassy.  “  I've  got  used 
Jo  wishing  that.  I'd  die,  if  I  dared  to,"  she  said,  looking  out 


E!PE  amc:tg  the  lowly. 


381 


into  the  darkness,  with  that  still,  fixed  despair  which  was 
the  habitual  expression  of  her  face  when  at  rest. 

“  It  would  be  wicked  to  kill  one’s  self/’  said  Emmeline. 

“  I  don’t  know  why— no  wickeder  than  things  we  live  and 
do,  day  after  day.  But  the  sisters  told  me  things,  when  I 
was  in  the  convent,  that  make  me  afraid  to  die.  If  it  would 
only  be  the  end  of  us,  why  then — — : ” 

Emmeline  turned  away,  and  hid  her  face  in  her  hands. 

While  this  conversation  w~as  passing  in  the  chamber, 
Legree,  overcome  with  his  carouse,  had  sunk  to  sleep  in  the 
room  below.  Legree  was  not  an  habitual  drunkard.  His 
coarse,  strong  nature  craved,  and  could  endure,  continual 
stimulation  that  would  have  utterly  wrrecked  and  crazed  a 
finer  one.  But  a  deep  underlying  spirit  of  cautiousness  pre¬ 
vented  his  often  yielding  to  appetite  in  such  measure  as  to 
lose  control  of  himself. 

This  night,  however,  in  his  feverish  efforts  to  banish  from 
his  mind  those  fearful  elements  of  woe  and  remorse  which 
woke  within  him,  he  had  indulged  more  than  common;  so 
that,  when  he  had  discharged  his  sable  attendants,  he  fell 
heavily  on  a  settle  in  the  room  and  was  soon  sound  asleep. 

Oh!  howr  dares  the  had  soul  to  enter  the  shadowy  world 
of  sleep? — that  land  whose  dim  outlines  lie  so  fearfully  near 
to  the  mystic  scene  of  retribution!  Legree  dreamed.  In  his 
heavy  and  feverish  sleep  a  veiled  form  stood  beside  him,  and 
laid  a  cold,  soft  hand  upon  him.  He  thought  he  knew  who 
it  was;  and  shuddered,  with  creeping  horror,  though  the 
face  was  veiled.  Then  he  thought  he  felt  that  hair  twining 
round  his  fingers;  and  then  that  it  slid  smoothly  round  his 
neck  and  tightened  and  tightened,  and  he  could  not  draw 
his  breath;  and  then  he  thought  voices  whispered  to  him, — 
whispers  that  chilled  him  with  horror.  Then  it  seemed  to 
him  he  was  on  the  edge  of  a  frightful  abyss,  holding  on  and 
struggling  in  mortal  fear,  while  dark  hands  stretched  up 
and  were  pulling  him  over;  and  Gassy  came  behind  him 
laughing,  and  pushing  him.  And  then  rose  up  that  solemn 
veiled  figure,  and  drew  aside  the  veil.  It  was  his  mother; 
and  she  turned  away  from  him,  and  he  fell  down,  down, 
down,  amid  a  confused  noise  of  shrieks,  and  groans,  and 
shouts  of  demon  laughter,— and  Legree  awoke. 

Calmly  the  rosy  hue  of  dawn  was  stealing  into  the  room. 
The  morning  star  stood,  with  its  solemn,  holy  eye  of  light, 
looking  down  on  the  man  of  sin,  from  out  the  brightening 


382 


TOOLE  tom’s  cabist; 

sky.  Oh,  with  what  freshness,  what  solemnity  and  beauty, 
is  each  new  day  born;  as  ii  to  say  to  insensate  man,  “  Behold! 
thou  hast  one  more  chance!  Strive  for  immortal  glory! ” 
There  is  no  speech  nor  language  where  this  voice  is  not 
heard;  but  the  bold,  bad  man  heard  it  not.  He  woke  with  an 
oath  and  a  curse.  What  to  him  was  the  gold  and  purple,  the 
daily  miracle  cf  morning?  What  to  him  the  sanctity  of  that 
star  which  the  Son  of  God  has  hallowed  as  his  own  emblem? 
Brute-like,  he  saw  without  perceiving;  and,  stumbling  for¬ 
ward,  poured  out  a  tumbler  of  brandy  and  drank  half  of  it. 

“  Fve  had  a  h— — 1  of  a  night! ”  he  said  to  Gassy,  who  just 
then  entered  from  an  opposite  door. 

“  You’ll  get  plenty  of  the  same  sort,  by  and  by,”  said  she 
dryly. 

“  What  do  you  mean,  you  minx?  ” 

“  You’ll  find  out  one  of  these  days,”  returned  Gassy,  in 
the  same  tone.  “  Now,  Simon,  I’ve  one  piece  of  advice  to 
give  you.” 

“  The  devil  you  have!  ” 

“  My  advice  is,”  said  Gassy  steadily,  as  she  began  adjust¬ 
ing  some  things  about  the  room,  “  that  you  let  Tom  alone.” 

“  What  business  is’t  of  yours  ?  ” 

“  What?  To  be  sure,  I  don’t  know  what  it  should  be.  If 
you  want  to  pay  twelve  hundred  for  a  fellow,  and  use  him 
right  up  in  the  press  of  the  season,  just  to  serve  your  own 
spite,  it’s  no  business  of  mine.  I’ve  done  what  I  could  for 

him.” 

“You  have?  What  business  have  you  meddling  in  my 
matters?  ” 

“  None,  to  be  sure.  I’ve  saved  you  some  thousands  of  dol¬ 
lars,  at  different  times,  by  taking  care  of  your  hands, — that’s 
all  the  thanks  I  get.  If  your  crop  comes  shorter  into  market 
than  any  of  theirs,  you  won’t  lose  your  bet,  I  suppose? 
Tompkins  won’t  lord  it  over  you,  I  suppose, — and  you’ll  pay 
down  your  money  like  a  lady,  won’t  you?  I  think  I  see 
you  doing  it?  ” 

Legree,  like  many  other  planters,  had  but  one  form  of 
ambition,- — to  have  in  the  heaviest  crop  of  the  season, — -and 
he  had  several  bets  on  this  very  present  season  pending  in 
the  next  town.  Gassy,  therefore,  with  woman’s  tact,  touched 
the  only  string  that  could  be  made  to  vibrate. 

“  Well,  I’ll  let  him  off  at  what  he’s  got,”  said  Legree;  “  but 
he  shall  beg  my  pardon,  and  promise  better  fashion  r’ 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY. 


80S 


sc  That  he  won't  do/*  said  Gassy. 

“Won’t— eh?” 

“  No,  he  won’t/’  said  Gassy. 

“  I’d  like  to  know  why,  mistress/’  said  Legree,  in  the  ex¬ 
treme  of  scorn. 

“  Because  he’s  done  right,  and  he  knows  it,  and  won’t  say 
he’s  done  wrong.” 

“  Who  a  cuss  cares  what  he  knows?  The  nigger  shall  say 
what  I  please,  or — — ” 

“  Or,  you’ll  lose  your  bet  on  the  cotton  crop,  by  keeping 
him  out  of  the  field,  just  at  this  very  press.” 

“  But  he  ivill  give  up, — course,  he  will;  don’t  I  know  what 
niggers  is?  He’ll  beg  like  a  dog,  this  morning.” 

“He  won’t,  Simon;  you  don’t  know  this  kind.  You  may  kill 
him  by  inches, — you  won’t  get  the  first  word  of  confession 
out  of  him. 

“  We’ll  see; — -where  is  he?  ”  said  Legree,  going  out. 

“  In  the  waste-room  of  the  gin-house,”  said  Cassy. 

Legree,  though  he  talked  so  stoutly  to  Cassy,  still  sallied 
forth  from  the  house  with  a  degree  of  misgiving  which  was 
not  common  with  him.  His  dreams  of  the  past  night, 
mingled  with  Gassy’s  prudential  suggestions,  considerably 
affected  his  mind.  He  resolved  that  nobody  should  be  wit¬ 
ness  of  his  encounter  with  Tom;  and  determined,  if  he  could 
not  subdue  him  by  bullying,  to  defer  his  vengeance,  to  be 
wreaked  in  a  more  convenient  season. 

The  solemn  light  of  dawn— the  angelic  glory  of  the  morn¬ 
ing  star— had  looked  in  through  the  rude  window  of  the  shed 
where  Tom  was  lying;  and,  as  if  descending  on  that  star- 
beam,  came  the  solemn  words,  “  I  am  the  root  and  offspring 
of  David,  and  the  bright  and  morning  star.”  The  mys¬ 
terious  warnings  and  intimations  of  Gassy,  so  far  from  dis¬ 
couraging  his  soul,  in  the  end  had  aroused  it  as  with  a 
heavenly  call.  He  did  not  know  but  that  the  day  of  his 
death  was  dawning  in  the  sky;  and  his  heart  throbbed  with 
solemn  throes  of  joy  and  desire,  as  he  thought  that  the  won¬ 
drous  all,  of  which  he  had  often  pondered —the  great  white 
throne,  with  its  ever  radiant  rainbow;  the  white-robed  multi¬ 
tude,  with  voices  as  many  waters;  the  crowns,  the  palms, 
the  harps, — might  all  break  upon  his  vision  before  that  sun 
should  set  again.  And,  therefore,  without  shuddering  or  trem¬ 
bling,  he  heard  the  voice  of  his  persecutor  as  he  drew  near® 


384 


UNCLE  TOM’S  CABIN  ;  OB, 


“  Well,  my  boy/’  said  Legree,  with  a  contemptuoue  kick, 
“  how  do  you  find  yourself?  Didn’t  I  tell  yer  I  could  lam  yer 
a  tiling  or  two?  How  do  yer  like  it, — eh?  How  did  yer 
whaling  agree  with  yer,  Tom?  An’t  quite  so  crank  as  ye  was 
last  night.  Ye  couldn’t  treat  a  poor  sinner,  now,  to  a  bit 
of  a  sermon,  could  ye, — eh?  ” 

Tom  answered  nothing. 

“  Get  up,  you  beast!  ”  said  Legree,  kicking  him  again. 

This  was  a  difficult  matter  for  one  so  bruised  and  faint; 
and,  as  Tom  made  efforts  to  do  so,  Legree  laughed  brutally. 

“  What  makes  ye  so  spry,  this  morning,  Tom?  Cotched 
cold,  maybe,  last  night.” 

Tom  by  this  time  had  gained  his  feet,  and  was  confronting 
his  master  with  a  steady,  unmoved  front. 

“  The  devil,  you  can!  ”  said  Legree,  looking  him  over.  “  l 
believe  you  haven’t  got  enough  yet.  How,  Tom,  get  right 
down  on  yer  knees  and  beg  my  pardon  for  yer  shines  last 
night.” 

Tom  did  not  move. 

“  Down,  you  dog!  ”  said  Legree,  striking  him  with  his 
riding- whip. 

“  Mas’r  Legree,”  said  Tom,  “  I  can’t  do  it.  I  did  only  what 
I  thought  was  right.  I  shall  do  just  so  again,  if  ever  the 
time  comes.  I  never  will  do  a  cruel  thing,  come  what  may.” 

“  Yes,  but  ye  don’t  know  what  may  come,  Master  Tom. 
Ye  think  what  you’ve  got  is  something.  I  tell  you  ’tan’t 
anything,— nothing  ’tall.  How  would  ye  like  to  be  tied  to 
a  tree,  and  have  a  slow  fire  lit  up  around  ye;— wouldn’t  that 
be  pleasant, — eh,  Tom!  ” 

“  Mas’r,”  said  Tom,  “  I  know  ye  can  do  dreadful  things; 
but  he  stretched  himself  upward  and  clasped  his  hands,— 
“  but,  after  ye’ve  killed  the  body,  there  an’t  no  more  ye  can 
do.  And  oh,  there’s  all  eternity  to  come,  after  that!  ” 

Eternity,— the  word  thrilled  through  the  black  man’s 
soul  with  light  and  power,  as  he  spoke;  it  thrilled  through 
the  sinner’s  soul,  too,  like  the  bite  of  a  scorpion.  Legree 
gnashed  on  him.  with  his  teeth,  but  rage  kept  him  silent; 
and  Tom,  like  a  man  disenthralled,  spoke,  in  a  clear  and 
cheerful  voice: 

“  Mas’r  Legree,  as  ye  bought  me.  I’ll  be  a  true  and  faith¬ 
ful  servant  to  ye.  I’ll  give  ye  all  the  work  of  my  hands,  all 
my  time,  all  my  strength;  but  my  soul  I  won’t  give  up  to 

mortal  man.  I  will  hold  on  to  the  Lord,  and  put  his  com- 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY. 


MI 

mauds  before  all* — die  or  live;  yon  may  be  sure  oift.  Kas’r 
Legree*  I  an’t  a  grain  afeard  to  die.  Pd  as  soon  die  as  not. 
Ye  may  whip  me^  starve  me*  burn  me,— it  *11  only  send  me 
sooner  where  I  want  to  go/* 

“1*11  make  ye  give  out,  though*  Yore  Pve  done!**  said 
Legree*  in  a  rage. 

“  I  shall  have  help”  said  Tom;  “  you/li  never  do  it/* 

“Who  the  devil’s  going  to  help  you?**  said  Legree  scorn¬ 
fully. 

“  The  Lord  Almighty/*  said  Tom. 

“D - you!  **  said  Legree*  as  with  one  blow  of  his  fist 

he  felled  Tom  to  the  earth. 

A  cold*  soft  hand  fell  on  Legree*s  at  this  moment.  He 
turned* — it  was  Cassy*s;  but  the  cold  soft  touch  recalled  his 
dream  of  the  night  before*  and*  flashing  through  the  cham¬ 
bers  of  his  brain*  came  all  the  fearful  images  of  the  night- 
watches*  with  a  portion  of  the  horror  that  accompanied 
them. 

“Will  you  be  a  fool?**  said  Gassy*  in  Trench.  “Let  him 
go!  Let  me  alone  to  get  him  lit  to  be  in  the  field  again. 
Isn’t  it  just  as  I  told  you?  ** 

They  say  the  alligator*  the  rhinoceros*  though  inclosed 
in  bullet-proof  mail*  have  each  a  spot  where  they  are  vulner¬ 
able;  and  fierce*  reckless*  unbelieving  reprobates  have  com¬ 
monly  this  point  in  superstitious  dread. 

Legree  turned  away*  determined  to  let  the  point  go  for 
the  time. 

“  Well*  have  it  your  own  way/*  he  said  doggedly,  to  Gassy. 

“Hark  ye!  **  he  said  to  Tom;  “I  don’t  deal  with  ye  now, 
because  the  business  is  pressing*  and  I  want  all  my  hands; 
but  I  never  forget.  I’ll  score  it  against  ye*  and  some  time 
I’ll  have  my  pay  out  o*  yer  old  black  hide*— mind  ye!  ** 

Legree  turned  and  went  out. 

“  There  you  go*”  said  Gassy*  looking  darkly  after  him; 
“your  reckoning’s  to  come  yet!  My  poor  fellow*  how  are 
you?  ” 

“  The  Lord  God  hath  sent  his  angel*  and  shut  the  lion’s 
mouth*  for  this  time*”  said  Tom. 

“  For  this  time*  to  be  sure/*  said  Gassy;  “  but  noiv  you’ve 
got  his  ill-will  upon  you*  to  follow  you  day  in*  day  out, 
hanging  like  a  dog  on  your  throat,— sucking  your  blood, 
Weeding  away  your  life*  drop  by  drop.  I  know  the  man,” 


386 


uncle  tom’s  cabin;  0% 


CHAPTER  XXXVII. 

LIBERTY. 

4t  Ho  matter  with  what  solemnities  he  may  have  been  devoted  upoa 
the  altar  of  slavery,  the  moment  he  touches  the  sacred  soil  of  Britain, 
the  altar  and  the  God  sink  together  in  the  dust,  and  he  stands  redeemed, 
regenerated,  and  disenthralled,  by  the  irresistible  genius  cf  universal 
emancipation /'—Curran. 

Awhile  we  must  leave  Tom  in  the  hands  cf  his  persecu¬ 
tors,  while  we  turn  to  pursue  the  fortunes  of  George  and  his 
wife,  whom  we  left  in  friendly  hands  in  a  farmhouse  on  the 
road. 

Tom  Loker  we  left  groaning  and  tousling  in  a  most  im¬ 
maculately  clean  Quaker  bed,  under  the  motherly  super¬ 
vision  of  Aunt  Dorcas,  who  found  him  to  the  full  as  tracta¬ 
ble  a  patient  as  a  sick  bison. 

Imagine  a  tall,  dignified,  spiritual  woman,  whose  clear 
muslin  cap  shades  waves  of  silvery  hair  parted  on  a  broad, 
clear  forehead,  which  overarches  thoughtful  gray  eyes.  A 
snowy  handkerchief  of  lisse  crape  is  folded  neatly  across  her 
bosom,  her  glossy  brown  silk  dress  rustles  peacefully  as  she 
glides  up  and  down  the  chamber. 

“  The  devil!  ”  says  Tom  Loker,  giving  a  great  throw  to 
the  bedclothes. 

“  I  must  request  thee,  Thomas,  not  to  use  such  language/’ 
says  Aunt  Dorcas,  as  she  quietly  rearranged  the  bed. 

“  Well,  I  won’t,  granny,  if  I  can  help  it,”  says  Tom;  “  but 
it  is  enough  to  make  a  fellow  swear, — -so  cursedly  hot!  ” 

Dorcas  removed  a  comforter  from  the  bed,  straightened 
the  clothes  again,  and  tucked  them  in  till  Tom  looked  some¬ 
thing  like  a  chrysalis;  remarking,  as  she  did  so: 

“I  wish,  friend,  thee  would  leave  off  cursing  and  swear¬ 
ing,  and  think  upon  thy  ways.” 

“  What  the  devil,”  said  Tom,  “  should  I  think  of  them  for? 
Last  thing  ever  I  want  to  think  of hang  it  all!  ”  And 
Tom  flounced  over,  untucking  and  disarranging  everything, 
in  a  manner  frightful  to  behold. 

“  That  fellow  and  gal  are  here,  I  s’pose,”  said  he  sullenly, 
after  a  pause. 

“  They  are  so,”  said  Dorcas. 

“  They’d  better  be  off  up  to  the  lake,”  said  Tom;  a  the 
quicker  better.” 


t IFS  AMONO  THE  LOWLY. 


^  Probably  they  will  do  sc/’  said  Aunt  Boreas,  knitting 
peacefully. 

“  And  hark  ye,”  said  Tom;  “  we’ve  got  correspondents  in 
Sandusky  that  watch  the  boats  for  us.  I  don’t  care  if  I 
tell,  now.  I  hope  they  will  get  away,  just  to  spite  Marks,— 
the  cursed  puppy! — d — — -  him!  ” 

“  Thomas!  ”  said  Dorcas. 

“  I  tell  you,  granny,  if  you  bottle  a  fellow  up  too  tight,  I 
shall  split,”  said  Tom.  “  But  about  the  gal,  tell  ’em  to  dress 
her  up  some  way,  so’s  to  alter  her.  Her  description’s  out  in 
Sandusky.” 

“  We  will  attend  to  that  matter,”  said  Dcrcas,  with  char¬ 
acteristic  composure. 

As  we  at  this  place  take  leave  of  Tom  Loker,  we  may  as 
well  say  that,  having  lain  three  weeks  at  the  Quaker  dwell¬ 
ing,  sick  with  a  rheuAiatic  fever,  which  set  in,  in  company 
with  his  other  afflictions,  Tom  arose  from  his  bed  a  some¬ 
what  sadder  and  wiser  man;  and,  in  place  of  slave-catching, 
betook  himself  to  life  in  one  of  the  new  settlements,  where 
his  talents  developed  themselves  more  happily  in  trapping 
bears,  wolves,  and  other  inhabitants  of  the  forest,  in  which 
he  made  himself  quite  a  name  in  the  land.  Tom  always 
6poke  reverently  of  the  Quakers.  “  Nice  people,”  he  would 
sav;  “  wranted  to  convert  me,  but  couldn’t  come  it  exactly. 
But,  tell  ye  what,  stranger,  they  do  fix  up  a  sick  fellow  first- 
rate, —no  mistake.  Make  jist  the  tallest  kind  o’  broth  and 
knick-knacks.” 

As  Tom  had  informed  them  that  their  party  would  be 
looked  for  in  Sandusky,  it  was  thought  prudent  to  divide 
them.  Jim  with  his  old  mother  were  forwarded  separately; 
and  a  night  or  two  after  George  and  Eliza,  with  their  child, 
were  driven  privately  into  Sandusky  and  lodged  beneath  a 
hospitable  roof,  preparatory  to  taking  their  last  passage  on 
the  lake. 

Their  night  was  now  far  spent,  and  the  morning  star  of 
liberty  rose  fair  before  them.  Liberty!— electric  word! 
What  is  it?  Is  there  anything  more  in  it  than  a  name,— a 
rhetorical  flourish?  Why,  men  and  women  of  America,  does 
your  heart’s  blood  thrill  at  that  word,  for  which  your 
fathers  bled,  and  your  braver  mothers  were  willing  that 
their  noblest  and  best  should  die? 

Is  there  anything  in  it  glorious  and  dear  for  a  nation  that 
is  not  also  glorious  and  dear  for  a  man?  What  is  freedom  tg 


388 


UNCLE  TOM5S  CABIN  5  OB, 

a  nation,  but  freedom  to  the  individuals  in  it?  What  is  fre> 
dom  to  that  young  man  who  sits  there  with  his  arms  folded 
over  his  broad  chest,  the  tint  of  African  blood  in  his  cheek, 
its  dark  fires  in  his  eye, — -what  is  freedom  to  George  Harris? 
To  your  fathers  freedom  was  the  right  of  a  nation  to  be  a 
nation.  To  him  it  is  the  right  of  a  man  to  be  a  man,  and  not 
a  brute;  the  right  to  call  the  wife  of  his  bosom  his  wife,  and 
to  protect  her  from  lawless  violence;  the  right  to  protect 
and  educate  his  child;  the  right  to  have  a  home  of  his  own, 
a  religion  of  his  own,  a  character  of  his  own,  unsubject  to 
the  will  of  another.  All  these  thoughts  were  rolling  and 
seething  in  George’s  breast  as  he  was  pensively  leaning  his 
head  on  his  hand,  watching  his  wife,  as  she  was  adapting  to 
her  slender  and  pretty  form  the  articles  of  man’s  attire  in 
which  it  was  deemed  safest  she  should  make  her  escape. 

“  Now  for  it,”  said  she,  as  she  stood  before  the  glass  and 
shook  down  her  silky  abundance  of  black  curly  hair.  “  I 
say,  George,  it’s  almost  a  pity,  isn’t  it,”  she  said,  as  she  held 
up  some  of  it  playfully,— “  pity  it’s  all  got  to  come 
off?” 

George  smiled  sadly  and  made  no  answer. 

Eliza  turned  to  the  glass,  and  the  scissors  glittered  as  one 
long  lock  after  another  was  detached  from  her  head. 

“  There,  now,  that  ’ll  do,”  she  said,  taking  up  a  hair¬ 
brush;  “  now  for  a  few  fancy  touches. 

“  There,  an’t  I  a  pretty  young  fellow?”  she  said,  turning 
around  to  her  husband,  laughing  and  blushing  at  the  same 
time. 

“You  always  will  be  pretty,  do  what  you  will,”  said 
George. 

“  What  does  make  you  so  sober?  ”  said  Eliza,  kneeling  on 
one  knee,  and  laying  her  hand  on  his.  “  We  are  only  within 
twenty-four  hours  of  Canada,  they  say.  Only  a  day  and  a 
night  on  the  lake,  and  then,— oh,  then!  ” 

“  Oh,  Eliza!  ”  said  George,  drawing  her  toward  him, 
“  that  is  it!  Now  my  fate  is  all  narrowing  down  to  a  point 
To  come  so  near,  to  be  almost  in  sight,  and  then  lose  all.  I 
should  never  live  under  it,  Eliza.” 

“  Don’t  fear,”  said  his  wife  hopefully.  “  The  good  Lord 
would  not  have  brought  us  so  far,  if  he  didn’t  mean  to  carry 
ns  through.  I  seem  to  feel  Him  with  ns,  George.” 

“You  are  a  blessed  woman,  Eliza!  ”  said  George,  clasping 
her  with  a  convulsive  grasp.  “  But,— oh*  tell  m  can  thi* 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY* 


S83 


great  mercy  be  for  us?  Will  these  years  and  years  of  misery 
come  to  an  end?  Shall  we  be  free?  ” 

“  I  am  sure  of  it,  George,”  said  Eliza,  looking  upward, 
while  tears  of  hope  and  enthusiasm  shone  on  her  long,  dark 
lashes.  “  I  feel  it  in  me,  that  God  is  going  to  bring  us  out 
of  bondage,  this  very  day.” 

“  I  wall  believe  you,  Eliza,”  said  George,  rising  suddenly 
up.  “ X  will  believe,— come,  let's  be  off.  Well,  indeed,” 
said  he,  holding  her  off  at  arm’s  length,  and  looking  admir¬ 
ingly  at  her,  “  you  are  a  pretty  little  fellow.  That  crop  of 
little  short  curls  is  quite  becoming.  Put  on  your  cap.  So,— 
a  little  to  one  side.  I  never  sawT  you  look  quite  so  pretty. 
But  its  almost  time  for  the  carriage;— I  wonder  if  Mrs. 
Smyth  has  got  Harry  rigged?  ” 

The  door  opened,  and  a  respectable,  middle-aged  woman 
entered,  leading  little  Harry,  dressed  in  girl’s  clothes. 

“What  a  pretty  girl  he  makes!”  said  Eliza,  turning  him 
round.  “  We  call  him  Harriet,  you  see;— don’t  the  name 
come  nicely?  ” 

The  child  stood  gravely  regarding  his  mother  in  her  new 
and  strange  attire,  observing  a  profound  silence,  and  occa¬ 
sionally  drawing  deep  sighs,  and  peeping  at  her  from  under 
his  dark  curls. 

“Does  Harry  know  mamma?”  said  Eliza,  stretching  her 
hands  toward  him. 

The  child  clung  shyly  to  the  woman. 

“  Come,  Eliza,  why  do  you  try  to  coax  him,  when  you  know 
that  he  has  got  to  be  kept  away  from  you?  ” 

“  I  know  it’s  foolish,”  said  Eliza;  “  yet  I  can’t  bear  to  have 
him  turn  away  from  me.  But  come, — where’s  my  cloak? 
Here,— how  is  it  men  put  on  cloaks,  George?” 

“  Yon  must  wear  it  so,”  said  her  husband,  throwing  it  over 
his  shoulders. 

“  So  then,”  said  Eliza,  imitating  the  motion,- — “  and  I 
must  stamp  around,  and  take  long  steps  and  try  to  look 
saucy.” 

“  Don’t  exert  yourself,”  said  George.  “  There  is,  now  and 
then,  a  modest  young  man;  and  I  think  it  would  be  easier 
for  you  to  act  that  character.” 

“And  these  gloves!  mercy  upon  us!”  said  Eliza;  “why, 
my  hands  are  lost  in  them.” 

“I  advise  you  to  keep  them  on  pretty  strictly,”  said 

George*  *  Your  little  slender  paw  might  bring  us  all  out* 


TOOLE  tom’s  cabin  ;  OR, 

Now,  Mrs.  Smyth,  yon  are  to  go  under  our  charge  and  he  ouf 
aunty, — von  mind.” 

“  I’ve  heard,”  said  Mrs.  Smyth,  “  that  there  have  been  men 
down  warning  all  the  packet  captains  against  a  man  and 
woman  with  a  little  boy.” 

“  They  have!”  said  George.  "Well,  if  we  see  any  such 
people  we  can  tell  them.” 

A  hack  now  drove  to  the  door,  and  the  friendly  family 
who  had  received  the  fugitives  crowded  around  them  with 
farewell  greetings. 

The  disguises  the  party  had  assumed  were  in  accordance 
with  the  hints  of  Tom  Loker.  Mrs.  Smyth,  a  respectable 
woman  from  the  settlement  in  Canada,  whither  they  were 
fleeing,  being  fortunately  about  crossing  the  lake  to  return 
thither,  had  consented  to  appear  as  the  aunt  of  little  Harry; 
and,  in  order  to  attach  him  to  her  he  had  been  allowed  to 
remain  the  last  two  days  under  her  sole  charge;  and  an  extra 
amount  of  petting,  joined  to  an  indefinite  amount  of  seed¬ 
cakes  and  candy,  had  cemented  a  very  close  attachment  on 
the  part  of  the  young  gentleman. 

The  hack  drove  to  the  wharf.  The  two  young  men,  as 
they  appeared,  walked  up  the  plank  into  the  boat,  Eliza 
gallantly  giving  her  arm  to  Mrs.  Smyth  and  George  attend¬ 
ing  to  their  baggage. 

George  was  standing  at  the  captain’s  office  settling  for  his 
party  when  he  overheard  two  men  talking  by  his  side. 

“  I’ve  watched  everyone  that  came  on  board,”  said  one, 
"  and  I  know  they’re  not  on  this  boat.” 

The  voice  was  that  of  the  clerk  of  the  boat.  The  speaker 
whom  he  addressed  was  our  sometime  friend  Marks,  who, 
with  that  valuable  perseverance  which  characterized  him, 
had  come  on  to  Sandusky  seeking  whom  he  might  devour. 

“  You  would  scarcely  know  the  woman  from  a  white  one,” 
said  Marks.  “  The  man  is  a  very  light  mulatto;  he  had  a 
brand  in  one  of  his  hands.” 

The  hand  with  which  George  was  taking  the  tickets  and 
change  trembled  a  little;  but  he  turned  coolly  around,  fixed 
an  unconcerned  glance  on  the  face  of  the  speaker,  and 
walked  leisurely  toward  another  part  of  the  boat  where 
Eliza  stood  waiting  for  him. 

Mrs.  Smyth,  with  little  Harry,  sought  the  seclusion  of  the 
ladies’  cabin,  where  the  dark  beauty  of  the  supnosed  little 
girl  drew  many  flattering  comments  from  the  passengers. 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LO VfhYo 


391 


George  had  the  satisfaction,  as  the  boll  rang  out  its  faro- 
well  peai,  to  see  Marks  walk  down  the  piank  to  the  shore; 
and  drew  a  long  sigh  of  relief  when  the  boat  nad  put  a  re¬ 
turnless  distance  between  them. 

It  was  a  superb  day.  The  blue  waves  of  Lake  Erie  danced, 
rippling  and  sparkling  in  the  sunlight.  A  fresh  breeze  blew 
from  the  shore,  and  the  lordly  boat  plowed  her  way  right 
gallantly  onward. 

Oh,  what  an  untold  world  there  is  in  one  human  heart! 
Who  thought,  as  George  walked  calmly  up  and  down  the 
deck  of  the  steamer,  with  his  shy  companion  at  his  side,  of 
all  that  was  burning  in  his  bosom?  The  mighty  good  that 
seemed  approaching  seemed  too  good,  too  fair,  even  to  be  a 
reality;  and  he  felt  a  jealous  dread,  every  moment  of  the  day3 
that  something  would  rise  to  snatch  it  from  him. 

But  the  boat  sped  on.  Hours  fleeted,  and  at  last,  clear 
and  full  rose  the  blessed  English  shores;  shores  charmed  by 
a  mighty  spell, — with  one  touch  to  dissolve  every  incanta¬ 
tion  of  slavery,  no  matter  in  what  language  pronounced  or 
by  what  national  power  confirmed. 

George  and  his  wrife  stood  arm  in  arm  as  the  boat  neared 
the  small  town  of  Amherstburg  in  Canada.  His  breath  grew 
thick  and  short;  a  mist  gathered  before  his  eyes;  he  silently 
pressed  the  little  hand  that  lay  trembling  on  his  arm.  The 
bell  rang;  the  boat  stopped.  Scarcely  seeing  what  he  did,  he 
looked  out  his  baggage  and  gathered  his  little  party.  The 
little  company  were  landed  on  'shore.  They  stood  still  till 
the  boat  had  cleared;  and  then,  with  tears  and  embracings, 
the  husband  and  wife,  with  their  wondering  child  in  their 
arms,  knelt  down  and  lifted  up  their  hearts  to  God! 

**  *Twas  something  like  the  burst  from  death  to  life  ; 

From  the  grave’s  cerements  to  the  robes  of  heaven  ; 

From  sin’s  dominion,  and  from  passion’s  strife, 

To  the  pure  freedom  of  a  soul  forgiven  ; 

Where  all  the  bonds  of  death  and  hell  are  riven. 

And  mortal  puts  on  immortality. 

When  Mercy’s  hand  hath  turned  the  golden  keys 
And  Mercy’s  voice  hath  said,  Rejoice ,  thy  soul  is  free," 

The  little  party  was  soon  guided  by  Mrs.  Smyth  to  the  hos¬ 
pitable  abode  of  a  good  missionary  whom  Christian  charity 
had  placed  here  as  a  shepherd  to  the  outcast  and  wandering, 
Who  are  constantly  finding  an  asylum  on  this  shore. 

.Who  can  speak  the  blessedness  of  that  first  day  of  free- 


892 


UNCLE  TOM’S  CABJN  |  OK* 

dom?  Is  not  the  sense  of  liberty  a  higher  and  a  finer  or® 
than  any  of  the  five?  To  move*  speak*  and  breathe* — go  out 
and  come  in  unwatched  and  free  from  danger!  Who  can 
speak  the  blessings  of  that  rest  which  comes  down  on  the 
freeman’s  pillow  under  laws  which  insure  to  him  the  rights 
that  God  has  given  to  man?  How  fair  and  precious  to  that 
mother  was  that  sleeping  child’s  face*  endeared  b}r  the  mem¬ 
ory  of  a  thousand  dangers!  How  impossible  was  it  to  sleep* 
in  the  exuberant  possession  of  such  blessedness!  And  yet 
these  two  had  not  one  acre  of  ground* — not  a  roof  that  they 
could  call  their  own*— they  had  spent  their  all  to  the  last 
dollar.  They  had  nothing  more  than  the  birds  of  the  air  or 
the  flowers  of  the  field*— yet  they  could  not  sleep  for  joy. 
“  Oh*  ye  who  take  freedom  from  man*  with  what  words  shall 
ye  answer  it  to  God?  ” 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII 

THE  VICTOEY. 

*'  Thanks  be  unto  God,  who  giveth  us  the  victory.” 

Have  not  many  of  us*  in  the  weary  way  of  life*  felt*  in 
some  hours*  how  far  easier  it  were  to  die  than  to  live  ? 

The  martyr*  when  faced  even  by  a  death  of  bodily  anguish 
and  horror*  finds  in  the  very  terror  of  his  doom  a  strong  stim¬ 
ulant  and  tonic.  There  is  a  vivid  excitement*  a  thrill  and 
fervor  which  may  carry  through  any  crisis  of  suffering  that 
is  the  birth-hour  of  eternal  glory  and  rest. 

But  to  live*— to  wear  on*  day  after  day,  of  mean*  bitter, 
low*  harassing  servitude*  every  nerve  dampened  and  de¬ 
pressed*  every  power  of  feeling  gradually  smothered, — this 
long  and  wasting  heart-martyrdom*  this  slow*  daily  bleeding 
away  of  the  inward  life*  drop  by  drop*  hour  after  hour, — 
this  is  the  true  searching  test  of  what  there  may  be  in  man 
or  woman. 

When  Tom  stood  face  to  face  with  his  persecutor  and 
heard  his  threats  and  thought  in  his  very  soul  that  his  hour 
was  come*  his  heart  swelled  bravely  in  him  and  he  thought 
he  could  bear  torture  and  fire*  bear  anything  with  the  vision 
of  Jesus  and  heaven  but  just  a  step  beyond;  but  when  he  was 
gone  and  the  present  excitement  passed  off*  came  back  the 


Z.IFE  AMONG  THU  LOWLY 


3  93 


pain  of  ms  bruised  and  weary  limbs, — came  back  the  sense 
of  his  utterly  degraded,  hopeless,  forlorn  estate;  and  the  day 
passed  wearily  enough. 

Long  before  his  wounds  were  healed  Legree  insisted  that 
he  should  be  put  to  the  regular  fieldwork;  and  then  came 
day  after  day  of  pain  and  weariness,  aggravated  by  every 
kind  of  injustice  and  indignity  that  the  ill-will  of  a  mean 
and  malicious  mind  could  devise.  Whoever,  in  our  circum¬ 
stances,  has  made  trial  of  pain  even  with  all  the  alleviations 
which,  for  us,  usually  attend  it,  must  know  the  irritation 
that  comes  with  it.  Tom  no  longer  wondered  at  the  habitual 
surliness  of  his  associates;  nay,  he  found  the  placid,  sunny 
temper  which  had  been  the  habitude  of  his  life  broken  in 
on  and  sorely  strained  by  the  inroads  of  the  same  thing. 
He  had  flattered  himself  on  leisure  to  read  his  Bible;  but 
there  was  no  such  thing  as  leisure  there.  In  the  height  of 
the  season  Legree  did  not  hesitate  to  press  all  his  hands 
through  Sundays  and  weekdays  alike.  Why  shouldn’t  he?— 
he  made  more  cotton  by  it  and  gained  his  wager;  and  if  it 
wore  out  a  few  more  hands  he  could  buy  better  ones.  At 
first  Tom  used  to  read  a  verse  or  two  in  his  Bible  by  the 
flicker  of  the  fire  after  he  had  returned  from  his  daily  toil; 
but  after  the  cruel  treatment  he  received,  he  used  to  come 
home  so  exhausted  that  his  head  swam  and  his  eyes  failed 
when  he  tried  to  read;  and  he  was  fain  to  stretch  himself 
down  with  the  others  in  utter  exhaustion. 

Is  it  strange  that  the  religious  peace  and  trust  which  had 
upborne  him  hitherto  should  give  way  to  tossings  of  soul 
and  despondent  darkness?  The  gloomiest  problem  of  this 
mysterious  life  was  constantly  before  his  eyes, — souls  crushed 
and  ruined,  evil  triumphant,  and  God  silent.  It  was  weeks 
and  months  that  Tom  wrestled,  in  his  own  soul,  in  darkness 
and  sorrow.  He  thought  of  Miss  Ophelia’s  letter  to  his  Ken¬ 
tucky  friends,  and  would  pray  earnestly  that  God  would 
send  him  deliverance.  And  then  he  would  watch,  day  after 
day,  in  the  vague  hope  of  seeing  somebody  sent  to  redeem 
him;  and  when  nobody  came  he  would  crush  back  to  his  soul 
bitter  thoughts,— -that  it  was  vain  to  serve  God,  that  God 
had  forgotten  him.  He  sometimes  saw  Gassy;  and  some¬ 
times,  when  summoned  to  the  house,  caught  a  glimpse  of 
the  dejected  form  of  Emmeline,  but  held  very  little  com¬ 
munion  with  either;  in  fact  there  was  no  time  for  feim  to 
gomrniM  with  anybody. 


394  UNCLE  TOM’S  CABIN  ;  OB, 

One  evening  lie  was  sitting  in  utter  dejection  and  prostra¬ 
tion  by  a  few  decaying  brands  where  his  coarse  supper  was 
baking.  He  put  a  few  bits  of  brushwood  on  the  fire  and 
strove  to  raise  the  light,  and  then  drev/  his  worn  Bible  from 
his  pocket.  There  were  all  the  marked  passages  which  had. 
thrilled  his  soul  so  often, — words  of  patriarchs  and  seers, 
poets  and  sages,  who,  from  early  time,  had  spoken  courage 
to  man,— -voices  from  the  great  cloud  of  witnesses  who  ever 
surround  us  in  the  race  of  life.  Had  the  word  lost  its  power 
or  could  the  failing  eye  and  weary  sense  no  longer  answer 
to  the  touch  of  that  mighty  inspiration?  Heavily  sighing 
he  put  it  in  his  pocket.  A  coarse  laugh  roused  him;  he  looked 
up, — Legree  was  standing  opposite  to  him. 

“  Well,  old  boy,”  he  said,  “  you  find  your  religion  don’t 
work,  it  seems!  I  thought  I  should  get  that  through  your 
wool  at  last!  ” 

The  cruel  taunt  was  more  than  hunger  and  cold  and 
nakedness.  Tom  was  silent. 

“  You  were  a  fool,”  said  Legree;  “  for  I  meant  to  do  well 
by  you  when  I  bought  you.  You  might  have  been  better 
off  than  Sambo  or  Quimbo  either,  and  had  easy  times;  and 
instead  of  getting  cut  up  and  thrashed  every  day  or  two  ye 
might  have  had  liberty  to  lord  it  round  and  cut  up  the  other 
niggers;  and  ye  might  have  had  now  and  then  a  good  warm¬ 
ing  of  whisky  punch.  Come,  Tom,  don’t  you  think  you’d 
better  be  reasonable? — heave  that  ar  old  pack  of  trash  in  the 
fire  and  join  my  *-iiurch!  ” 

“  The  Lord  forbid!  ”  said  Tom  fervently. 

“  You  see  the  Lord  an’t  going  to  help  you;  if  he  had  been 
he  wouldn’t  have  let  me  get  you!  This  yer  religion  is  all  a 
mess  of  lying  trumpery,  Tom.  I  know  all  about  it.  Ye’d 
better  hold  to  me.  I’m  somebody  and  can  do  something!  ” 

“No,  mas’r,”  said  Tom;  “  I’ll  hold  on.  The  Lord  may 
help  me  or  not  help  me;  but  I’ll  hold  to  him  and  believe  him 
to  the  last!  ” 

“  The  more  fool  you!  ”  said  Legree,  spitting  scornfully 
at  him  and  spurning  him  with  his  foot.  “  Never  mind;  I’ll 
chase  you  down  yet  and  bring  you  under,- — you’ll  see!  ”  and 
Legree  turned  away. 

When  a  heavy  weight  presses  the  soul  to  the  lowest  level 
at  which  endurance  is  possible  there  is  an  instant  and  des¬ 
perate  effort  of  every  physical  and  moral  nerve  to  throw  off 
the  weight;  and  hence  the  heaviest  anguish  often  precedes 


-mm  AMO  MG  THE  LOWLY. 


B,  return  tide  of  joy  and  courage.  So  was  it  now  with  Tom. 
The  atheistic  taunts  of  his  cruel  master  sunk  his  before  de¬ 
jected  soul  to  the  lowest  ebb;  and,  though  the  hand  of  faith 
still  held  to  the  eternal  rock,  it  was  with  a  numb,  despairing 
grasp.  Tom  sat  like  one  stunned,  at  the  fire.  Suddenly 
everything  around  him  seemed  to  fade  and  a  vision  rose  be» 
fore  him  of  One  crowned  with  thorns,  buffeted  and  bleeding. 
Tom  gazed  in  awe  and  wonder  at  the  majestic  patience  of 
the  face;  the  deep  pathetic  eyes  thrilled  him  to  his  inmost 
heart;  his  soul  woke  as,  with  floods  of  emotion,  he  stretched 
out  his  hands  and  fell  upou  his  knees, — when,  gradually  the 
vision  changed;  the  sharp  thorns  became  rays  oi  glory;  and 
in  splendor  inconceivable  he  sav/  that  same  face  bending 
compassionately  toward  him,  and  a  voice  said,  “  He  that 
overcometh  shall  sit  down  with  me  on  my  throne,  even  as  I 
also  overcame,  and  am  set  down  with  my  Father  on  his 
throne.” 

How  long  Tom  lay  there  he  knew  not.  When  he  came  to 
himself  the  fire  was  gone  out,  his  clothes  were  wet  with  the 
chill  and  drenching  dews;  but  the  dread  soul-crisis  was  past, 
and  in  the  joy  that  filled  him  he  no  longer  felt  hunger,  cold, 
degradation,  disappointment,  wretchedness.  From  his  deep¬ 
est  soul  he  that  hour  loosed  and  parted  from  every  hope  in 
the  life  that  now  is  and  offered  his  own  will  an  unquestioned 
sacrifice  to  the  Infinite.  Tom  looked  up  to  the  silent,  ever- 
living  stars,— types  of  the  angelic  hosts  who  ever  looked 
down  on  man;  and  the  solitude  of  the  night  rung  with  the 
triumphant  words  of  a  hymn  which  he  had  sung  often  in 
'happier  days,  but  never  with  such  feeling  as  now: 

“The  earth  shall  be  dissolved  like  snow. 

The  sun  shall  cease  to  shine  ; 

But  God,  who  called  me  here  below. 

Shall  be  forever  mine. 

u  And  when  this  mortal  life  shall  fail, 

And  flesh  and  sense  shall  cease, 

I  shall  possess  within  the  veil 
A  life  of  joy  and  peace. 

“When  we’ve  been  there  ten  thousand  years, 

Bright  shining  like  the  sun, 

We’ve  no  less  days  to  sing  God’s  praise. 

Than  when  we  first  begun.” 

Those  who  have  been  familiar  with  the  religious  histories 
Si  the  slave  population  know  that  relations  like  what  we 


886  uncl®  tom’s  cabin  ;  or, 

have  narrated  are  very  common  among  them.  We  have  heard 
some  from  their  own  lips  of  a  very  touching  and  affecting 
character.  The  psychologist  tells  us  of  a  state  in  which  the 
affections  and  images  of  the  mind  become  so  dominant  and 
overpowering  that  they  press  into  their  service  the  outward 
senses  and  make  them  give  tangible  shape  to  the  inward 
imagining.  Who  shall  measure  what  an  all-pervading  Spirit 
may  do  with  these  capabilities  of  our  mortality  or  the  ways 
in  which  he  may  encourage  the  desponding  souls  of  the  des¬ 
olate?  If  the  poor  forgotten  slave  believes  that  Jesus  hath 
appeared  and  spoken  to  him,  who  shall  contradict  him?  Did 
He  not  say*  that  his  mission  in  all  ages  was  to  bind  up  the 
broken-hearted  and  set  at  liberty  them  that  are  bruised? 

When  the  dim  gray  of  dawn  woke  the  slumberers  to  go 
forth  to  the  field  there  was  among  those  tattered  and  shiver¬ 
ing  wretches  one  who  walked  with  an  exultant  tread;  for 
firmer  than  the  ground  he  trod  on  was  his  strong  faith  in 
Almighty,  eternal  love.  Ah,  Legree,  try  all  your  forces  now! 
Utmost  agony,  woe,  degradation,  want,  and  loss  of  all  things 
shall  only  hasten  on  the  process  by  which  he  shall  be  made  a 
king  and  a  priest  unto  God! 

From  this  time  an  inviolable  sphere  of  peace  encompassed 
the  lowly  heart  of  the  oppressed  one,— an  ever-present 
Saviour  hallowed  it  as  a  temple.  Past  now  the  bleeding  of 
earthly  regrets;  past  its  fluctuations  of  hope  and  fear  and 
desire;  the  human  will,  bent,  and  bleeding,  and  struggling 
long,  was  now  entirely  merged  in  the  Divine.  So  short  now 
seemed  the  remaining  voyage  of  life, — so  near,  so  vivid 
seemed  eternal  blessedness,- — that  life’s  uttermost  woes  fell 
from  him  unharming. 

All  noticed  the  change  in  his  appearance.  Cheerfulness 
and  alertness  seemed  to  return  to  him,  and  a  quietness 
which  no  insult  or  injury  could  ruffle  seemed  to  possess  him. 

“  What  the  devil’s  got  into  Tom?  ”  Legree  said  to  Sambo. 
"A  while  ago  he  was  all  down  in  the  mouth  and  now  he’s 
peart  as  a  cricket.” 

u  Dunno,  mas’r;  gwine  to  run  off,  mebbe.” 

“  Like  to  see  him  try  that,”  said  Legree,  with  a  savage 
grin;  “  wouldn’t  we,  Sambo?” 

“  Guess  we  would!  Haw!  haw!  ho!  ”  said  the  sooty  gnome, 
laughing  obsequiously.  “  Lord,  de  fun!  To  see  him  s  tic  kin’ 
in  de  mud,— chasin’  and  tarin’  through  the  hushes,  dogs 
a-holdin’  on  to  him!  Lord,  I  laughed  fit  to  split,  dr>  -'r  time 


WB  AMOHG  TH3  LOWLY 


SOT 


re  eotehed  Molly.  I  thought  they’d  V  had  her  all  stripped1 
up  afore  I  could  get  ?em  off.  She  car’s  de  marks  o’  dat  ar 

spree  yet." 

“  I  reckon  she  will  to  her  grave/5  said  Legree.  “  Bui  now 
Sambo,  you  look  sharp.  If  the  nigger’s  got  anything  of  this 
sort  going,  trip  him  up." 

“  Mas Y  let  me  ’lone  for  dat/5  said  Sambo.  “  Fll  tree  de 
coon.  Ho,  ho,  ho!  ’’ 

This  was  spoken  as  Legree  was  getting  on  to  his  horse  to 
go  to  the  neighboring  to\vii.  That  night  as  he  was  return¬ 
ing  he  thought  he  would  turn  his  horse  and  ride  around  the 
quarters  and  see  if  all  was  safe. 

It  was  a  superb  moonlight  night,  and  the  shadows  of  the 
graceful  China-trees  lay  minutely  penciled  on  the  turf  be¬ 
low,  and  there  was  that  transparent  stillness  in  the  air  which 
it  seems  almost  unholy  to  disturb.  Legree  was  at  a  little 
distance  from  the  quarters  when  he  heard  the  voice  of  some¬ 
one  singing.  It  was  not  a  usual  sound  there,  and  he  paused 
to  listen.  A  musical  tenor  voice  sang: 

“  When  I  can  read  my  title  clear 
To  mansions  in  the  skies, 

Fll  bid  farewell  to  every  fear 
And  wipe  my  weeping  eye s. 

**  Should  earth  against  my  soul  engage* 

And  hellish  darts  be  hurled, 

Then  I  can  smile  at  Satan’s  rage, 

And  face  a  frowning  world. 

44  Let  cares  like  a  wild  deluge  come 
And  storms  of  sorrow  fall, 

May  I  but  safely  reach  my  home, 

My  God,  my  Heaven,  my  AIL” 

“  So  ho! "  said  Legree  to  himself,  “  he  thinks  so,  does  he? 
How  I  hate  these  cursed  Methodist  hymns!  Here,  you  nig¬ 
ger,"  said  he,  coming  suddenly  out  upon  Tom  and  raising 
his  riding-whip,  “  how  dare  you  be  gettin’  up  this  yer  row 
when  you  ought  to  be  in  bed?  Shut  yer  old  black  gash  and 
get  along  in  with  you! 

“  Yes,  mas’r/’  said  Tom,  with  ready  cheerfulness,  as  he 
rose  to  go  in. 

Legree  was  provoked  beyond  measure  by  Tom’s  evident 
happiness;  and,  riding  up  to  him,  belabored  him  over  his 
bead  and  shoulders. 


S98 


UNCLE  TOM’S  CABIN  |  C% 

“  There,  you  dog,”  he  said,  “  see  if  you’ll  feel  so  comforta¬ 
ble  after  that! ” 

But  the  blows  fell  now  only  on  the  outer  man,  and  not, 
as  before,  on  the  heart.  Tcm  stood  perfectly  submissive; 
and  yet  Legree  could  not  hide  from  himself  that  his  power 
over  his  bond  thrall  was  somehow  gene.  And  as  Tom  dk 
appeared  in  his  cabin  and  he  wheeled  his  horse  suddenly 
round,  there  passed  through  his  mind  one  of  those  vivid 
flashes  that  often  send  fhe  lightning  of  conscience  across 
the  dark  and  wicked  soul.  He  understood  full  well  that  it 
was  God  who  was  standing  between  him  and  his  victim,  and 
he  blasphemed  Him.  That  submissive  and  silent  man, 
whom  taunts  nor  threats  nor  stripes  nor  cruelties  could  dis¬ 
turb,  roused  a  voice  within  him  such  as  of  old  his  Master 
roused  in  the  demoniac  soul,  saying,  “  What  have  we  to  do 
with  thee,  thou  Jesus  of  Nazareth?— art  thou  come  to  tor¬ 
ment  us  before  the  time?  99 

Tom’s  whole  soul  overflowed  with  compassion  and  sympa¬ 
thy  for  the  poor  wretches  by  whom  he  was  surrounded.  To 
him  it  seemed  as  if  his  life  sorrows  were  now  over,  and  as  if, 
out  of  that  strange  treasury  of  peace  and  joy  with  which  he 
had  been  endowed  from  above,  he  longed  to  pour  cut  some¬ 
thing  for  the  relief  of  their  woes.  It  is  true  opportunities 
were  scanty;  but,  on  the  way  to  the  fields  and  back  again 
and  during  the  hours  of  labor,  chances  fell  in  his  way  of  ex¬ 
tending  a  helping  hand  to  the  weary,  the  disheartened  and 
discouraged.  The  poor,  worndown,  brutalized  creatures  at 
first  could  scarce  comprehend  this;  but  when  it  was  con¬ 
tinued  week  after  week,  and  month  after  month,  it  began  to 
awaken  long-silent  chords  in  their  benumbed  hearts.  Grad¬ 
ually  and  imperceptibly  the  strange,  silent,  patient  man  who 
was  ready  to  bear  everyone’s  burden  and  sought  help  from 
none, — who  stood  aside  for  all,  and  came  last,  and  took  least, 
yet  was  foremost  to  share  his  little  all  with  any  who  needed 
—the  man  who  in  cold  nights  would  give  up  his  tattered 
blanket  to  add  to  the  comfort  of  some  woman  who  shivered 
with  sickness,  and  who  filled  the  baskets  of  the  weaker  ones 
in  the  field  at  the  terrible  risk  of  coming  short  in  his  own 
measure, — and  who,  though  pursued  with  unrelenting 
cruelty  by  their  common  tyrant,  never  joined  in  uttering  a 
word  of  reviling  or  cursing,— this  man  at  last  began  to  have 
a  strange  power  over  them;  and,  when  the  more  pressing 
season  was  past  and  they  were  allowed  again  their  Sundays 


LIFE  AMONG  TlXE  LOWLY. 


399 


for  their  own  use*  many  would  gather  together  to  hear  from 
him  of  Jesus.  They  would  gladly  have  met  to  hear  and 
pray  and  sing  in  some  place  together;  but  Legree  would  not 
permit  it,  and  more  than  once  broke  no  such  attempts  with 
oaths  and  brutal  execrations, — so  that  the  blessed  news  had 
to  circulate  from  individual  to  individual.  Yet  who  can 
speak  the  simple  joy  with  which  some  of  tnese  poor  outcasts, 
to  whom  life  was  a  joyless  journey  to  a  dark  unknown,  heard 
of  a  compassionate  liedeemer  and  a  heavenly  home?  It  is 
the  statement  of  missionaries  that,  of  all  races  of  the  earth, 
none  have  received  the  gospel  with  such  eager  docility  as 
the  African.  The  principle  of  reliance  and  unouestioning 
faith  which  is  its  foundation  is  more  a  native  element  in  this 
race  than  any  other;  and  it  has  often  been  found  among 
them  that  a  stray  seed  of  truth,  borne  on  some  breeze  of  acci¬ 
dent  into  hearts  the  most  ignorant,  has  sprung  up  into  fruit 
whose  abundance  has  shamed  that  of  higher  and  more  skill¬ 
ful  culture. 

The  poor  mulatto  woman,  whose  simple  faith  had  been 
well-nigh  crushed  and  overwhelmed  by  the  avalanche  of 
cruelty  and  wrong  which  had  fallen  upon  her,  felt  her  soul 
raised  up  by  the  hymns  and  passages  of  Holy  Writ  which  this 
lowly  missionary  breathed  into  her  ear  in  intervals  as  they 
were  going  to  and  returning  from  work;  and  even  the  half- 
crazed  and  wandering  mind  of  Gassy  was  soothed  and  calmed 
by  his  simple  and  unobtrusive  influences. 

Stung  to  madness  and  despair  by  the  crushing  agonies  of 
her  life,  Gassy  had  often  resolved  in  her  soul  an  hour  of 
retribution  when  her  hand  should  avenge  on  her  oppressor 
all  the  injustice  and  cruelty  to  which  she  had  been  witness, 
or  which  she  had  in  her  own  person  suffered. 

One  night  after  all  in  Tom’s  cabin  were  sunk  in  sleep,  he 
was  suddenly  aroused  by  seeing  her  face  at  the  hole  between 
the  logs  that  served  for  a  window.  She  made  a  silent  gesture 
for  him  to  come  out. 

Tom  came  out  the  door.  It  was  between  one  and  two 
o’clock  at  night,— broad,  calm,  still  moonlight.  Tom  re* 
marked,  as  the  light  of  the  moon  fell  upon  Gassy’s  large 
black  eyes,  that  there  was  a  wild  and  peculiar  glare  in  them 
unlike  their  wronted  fixed  despair. 

“  Come  here,  Father  Tom,”  she  said,  laying  her  small 
band  on  his  wrist  and  drawing  him  forward  with  a  force  af 
it  the  hand  were  of  steel;  “  come  here, — Fve  news  for  you.* 


400 


UNCLE  tom’s  cabin;  OB, 

“  What,  Misse  Cassy?  ”  said  Tom  anxiously. 

“  Tom,  wouldn’t  you  like  your  liberty?  ” 

“  I  shall  have  it,  misse,  in  God’s  time,”  said  Tom. 

“  Aye,  but  you  may  have  it  to-night,”  said  Cassy,  with  a 
flash  of  sudden  energy.  “  Come  on,” 

Tom  hesitated. 

“  Come,”  said  she  in  a  whisper,  fixing  her  black  eyes  on 
him.  “  Come  along!  He’s  asleep — -sound.  I  put  enough 
into  his  brandy  to  keep  him  so.  1  wish  I’d  had  more,— -I 
shouldn’t  have  wanted  you.  But  come,  the  back  door  is  un¬ 
locked;  there’s  an  ax  there,  I  put  it  there,— -his  room  door  is 
open;  I’ll  show  you  the  way.  I’d  ’a’  done  it  myself,  only  my 
arms  are  so  weak.  Come  along!  ” 

“Not  for  ten  thousand  worlds,  misse!  ”  said  Tom  firmly, 
stopping  and  holding  her  back  as  she  was  pressing  forward. 

“  But  think  of  all  these  poor  creatures,”  said  Cassy.  “  We 
might  set  them  all  free  and  go  somewhere  in  the  swamps 
and  find  an  island  and  live  by  ourselves;  I’ve  heard  of  its 
being  done.  Any  life  is  better  than  this.” 

“No!  ”  said  Tom  firmly.  “No!  good  never  comes  of  wick- 
edness.  I’d  sooner  chop  my  right  hand  off!  ” 

“  Then  I  shall  do  it,”  said  Cassy,  turning. 

“  Oh,  Misse  Cassy!  ”  said  Tom,  throwing  himself  before 
her,  “  for  the  dear  Lord’s  sake  that  died  for  ye  don’t  sell 
your  precious  soul  to  the  devil  that  way!  Nothing  but  evil 
will  come  of  it.  The  Lord  hasn’t  called  us  to  wrath.  We 
must  suffer  and  wait  his  time.” 

“Wait!”  said  Cassy.  “Haven’t  I  waited? — -waited  till 
my  head  is  dizzy  and  my  heart  sick?  What  has  he  made  me 
suffer.  What  has  he  made  hundreds  of  poor  creatures 
suffer?  Isn’t  he  wringing  the  life-blood  out  of  you?  I’m 
called  on;  they  call  me!  His  time’s  come  and  I’ll  have  his 
heart’s  blood!  ” 

“  No,  no,  no!  ”  said  Tom,  holding  her  small  hands,  which 
were  clenched  with  spasmodic  violence.  “  No,  ye  poor,  lost 
soul,  that  ye  mustn’t  do.  The  dear,  blessed  Lord  never  shed 
no  blood  but  his  own,  and  that  he  poured  out  for  us  when 
we  was  enemies.  Lord,  help  us  to  follow  his  steps  and  love 
our  enemies!  ” 

“Love!”  said  Cassy,  with  a  fierce  glare;  “love  such  ene¬ 
mies!  It  isn’t  in  flesh  and  blood.” 

“  No,  misse,  it  isn’t,”  said  Tom,  looking  up;  “  but  Tie  gives 
it  to  us  and  that’s  the  victory .  When  we  can  love  and  prajr 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY, 


401 


over  all,  and  through  all,  the  battled  past  and  the  victory's 
come, — glory  be  to  God!  "  And,  with  streaming  eyes 
and  choking  voice,  the  black  man  looked  up  to  heaven. 

And  this,  0  Africa!  latest  called  of  nations,— called  to  the 
crown  of  thorns,  the  scourge,  the  bloody  sweat,  the  cross  of 
agony, — -this  is  to  be  thy  victory;  by  this  shalt  thou  reign 
with  Christ  when  his  kingdom  shall  come  on  earth. 

The  deep  fervor  of  Tom's  feelings,  the  softness  of  his 
voice,  his  tears,  fell  like  dew  on  the  wild,  unsettled  spirit  of 
the  poor  woman.  A  softness  gathered  over  the  lurid  fires 
of  her  eyes;  she  looked  down,  and  Tom  could  feel  the  re¬ 
laxing  muscles  of  her  hands  as  she  said: 

“  Didn't  I  tell  you  that  evil  spirits  followed  me?  Oh, 
Father  Tom,  I  can't  pray,— I  wish  I  could.  I  never  have 
prayed  since  my  children  were  sold!  What  you  say  must  be 
right,  I  know  it  must:  but  when  I  try  to  pray  I  can  only  hate 
and  curse.  I  can't  pray!  " 

“  Poor  soul!  "  said  Tom  compassionately.  “  Satan  desires 
to  have  ye  and  sift  ye  as  wheat.  I  pray  the  Lord  for  ye. 
Oh,  Misse  Gassy,  turn  to  the  dear  Lord  Jesus.  He  came  to 
bind  up  the  broken-hearted  and  comfort  all  that  mourn." 

Gassy  stood  silent,  while  large,  heavy  tears  dropped  from 
her  downcast  eyes. 

“  Misse  Gassy,"  said  Tom,  in  a  hesitating  tone,  after  sur¬ 
veying  her  a  moment  in  silence,  “  if  ye  only  could  get  away 
from  here,— if  the  thing  was  possible,— I'd  'vise  ye  and 
Emmeline  to  do  it;  that  is,  if  ye  could  go  without  blood- 
guiltiness,— not  otherwise." 

“  Would  you  try  it  with  us,  Father  Tom  ?  " 

“  No,"  said  Tom;  “  time  was  when  I  would:  but  the  Lord's 
given  me  a  work  among  these  yer  poor  souls,  and  I'll  stay 
with  'em  and  bear  my  cross  with  'em  till  the  end.  It's  differ¬ 
ent  with  you;  it's  a  snare  to  you,— it's  more'n  you  can  stand 
—and  you'd  better  go,  if  you  can." 

“  I  know  no  way  but  through  the  grave,"  said  Gassy. 
“  There's  no  beast  or  bird  but  can  find  a  home  somewhere; 
even  the  snakes  and  the  alligators  have  their  places  to  lie 
down  and  be  quiet:  but  there's  no  place  for  us.  Down  in 
the  darkest  swamps  their  dogs  will  hunt  us  out  and  find  us. 
Everybody  and  everything  is  against  us;  even  the  very  beasts 
side  against  us,— and  where  shall  we  go?  " 

Tom  stood  silent;  at  length  he  said: 

*  *&i*n  that  saved  Daniel  in  the  den  of  lions* — that  saved 


402  UNCLE  tom’s  cabin  ;  OB, 

the  children  in  the  fiery  furnace,— Kim  that  walked  on  the 
sea  and  bade  the  winds  be  still,— He’s  alive  yet;  and  I’ve 
faith  to  believe  He  can  deliver  you.  Try  it,  and  I’ll  pray 
with  all  my  might  for  you.” 

By  what  strange  law  of  mind  is  it  that  an  idea  long  over¬ 
looked  and  trodden  underfoot  as  a  useless  stone  suddenly 
sparkles  out  in  new  light  as  a  discovered  diamond? 

Gassy  had  often  revolved  for  hours  all  possible  or  probable 
schemes  of  escape  and  dismissed  them  all  as  hopeless  and 
impracticable;  but  at  this  moment  there  flashed  through  her 
mind  a  plan,  so  simple  and  feasible  in  all  its  details  as  to 
awaken  an  instant  hope. 

“  Father  Tom,  I’ll  try  it!  ”  she  said  suddenly, 

“  Amen!  ”  said  Tom;  “  the  Lord  help  ye!  ” 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

THE  STRATAGEM. 

The  way  of  the  wicked  is  as  darkness  ;  he  knoweth  not  at  what  ha 
■tumbleth. 

The  g&rret  of  the  house  that  Legree  occupied,  like  most 
other  garrets,  was  a  great  desolate  space,  dusty,  hung  with 
cobwebs,  and  littered  with  cast-off  lumber.  The  opulent 
family  that  had  inhabited  the  house  in  the  days  of  its  splen¬ 
dor  had  imported  a  great  deal  of  splendid  furniture,  some  of 
which  they  had  taken  away  with  them,  while  some  remained 
standing  desolate  in  moldering,  unoccupied  rooms  or  stored 
away  in  this  place.  One  or  two  immense  packing-boxes,  in 
which  the  furniture  was  brought,  stood  against  the  sides  of 
the  garret.  There  was  a  small  window  there  which  let  in 
through  its  dingy,  dusty  panes  a  scanty,  uncertain  light  on 
the  tall,  high-backed  chairs  and  dusty  tables  that  had  once 
seen  better  days.  Altogether  it  was  a  weird  and  ghostly 
place;  but,  ghostly  as  it  was,  it  wanted  not  in  legends  among 
the  superstitious  negroes  to  increase  its  terrors.  Some  few 
years  before  a  negro  woman  who  had  incurred  Legree’s  dis¬ 
pleasure  was  confined  there  for  several  weeks.  What  passed 
there  we  do  not  say;  the  negroes  used  to  whisper  darkly  to 
each  other;  but  it  was  known  that  the  body  of  the  unfortu¬ 
nate  creature  was  one  day  taken  down  from  there  and 
buried;  and,  after  that  it  was  said  that  oaths  and  cursings 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY, 


m 


and  the  sound  of  violent  blows  used  to  ling  through  that  old 
garret,  and  mingled  with  wailings  and  groans  of  despair. 
Once,  when  Legree  chanced  to  overhear  something  of  this 
kind,  he  flew  into  a  violent  passion  and  swore  that  the  next 
one  that  told  stories  about  that  garret  should  have  an  oppor¬ 
tunity  of  knowing  what  was  there,  for  he  would  chain  them 
up  there  for  a  week.  This  hint  was  enough  to  repress  talk¬ 
ing,  though,  of  course,  it  did  not  disturb  the  credit  of  the 
story  in  the  least. 

Gradually  the  staircase  that  led  to  the  garret,  and  even 
the  passage-way  to  the  staircase,  was  avoided  by  everyone 
in  the  house,  from  everyone  fearing  to  speak  of  it,  and  the 
legend  was  gradually  falling  into  desuetude.  It  had  sud¬ 
denly  occurred  to  Gassy  to  make  use  of  the  superstitious 
excitability  which  was  so  great  in  Legree  for  the  purpose  of 
her  liberation  and  that  of  her  fellow-sufferer. 

The  sleeping  room  of  Gassy  was  directly  under  the  garret. 
One  day,  without  consulting  Legree,  she  suddenly  took  it 
upon  her,  with  some  considerable  ostentation,  to  change  all 
the  furniture  and  appurtenances  of  the  room  to  one  at  some 
considerable  distance.  The  under-servants,  who  w^ere  called 
on  to  effect  this  movement,  were  running  and  hustling  about 
with  great  zeal  and  confusion  when  Legree  returned  from  a 
ride. 

“Hallo!  you  Cass!”  said  Legree,  “what’s  in  the  wind 
now?  ” 

“Nothing;  only  X  choose  to  have  another  room,”  said 
Cassy  doggedly. 

“  And  what  for,  pray  ?  ”  said  Legree. 

“  X  choose  to,”  said  Gassy. 

“  The  devil  you  do!  and  what  for?  ” 

“  I’d  like  to  get  some  sleep  now  and  then.” 

“  Sleep!  well,  what  hinders  your  sleeping?  ” 

“  I  could  tell,  X  suppose,  if  you  want  to  hear,”  said  Cassy 
dryly. 

“  Speak  out,  you  minx!  ”  said  Legree. 

“Oh!  nothing.  X  suppose  it  wouldn’t  disturb  you!  Only 
groans,  and  people  scuffling  and  rolling  round  on  the  garret 
floor  half  the  night,  from  twelve  to  morning!  ” 

“People  up  garret!  ”  said  Legree  uneasily,  but  forcing  a 
laugh.  “  Who  are  they,  Cassy?  ” 

Cassy  raised  her  sharp,  black  eyes  and  looked  in  the  face 
of  Legree  with  an  expression  that  went  through.  bones* 


404 


UNCLE  tom’s  cm  1X7  ;  ■  OK, 

as  she  said,  “  To  be  sure,  Simon.,  who  are  they?  I’d  like  to 
have  you  tell  me.  You  don’t  know,  I  suppose!  ” 

With  an  oath  Legree  struck  at  her  with  his  riding- whip; 
but  she  glided  to  one  site  and  passed  through  the  door  and, 
looking  back,  said,  “  If  you’ll  sleep  in  that  room  you’ll  know1 
all  about  it.  Perhaps  you’d  better  try  it!  ”  and  then  immedi¬ 
ately  she  shut  and  locked  the  door. 

Legree  blustered  and  swore  and  threatened  to  break  down 
the  door;  but  apparently  thought  better  of  it  and  walked 
uneasily  into  the  sitting  room.  Gassy  perceived  that  her 
shaft  had  struck  home;  and  from  that  hour,  with  the  most 
exquisite  address,  she  never  ceased  to  continue  the  train  of 
influences  she  had  begun. 

In  a  knot-hole  in  the  garret  she  had  inserted  the  neck  of 
an  old  bottle  in  such  a  manner  that  when  there  was  the  least 
wind,  most  doleful  and  lugubrious  wailing  sounds  proceeded 
from  it  which,  in  a  high  wind,  increased  to  a  perfect  shriek, 
such  as  to  credulous  and  superstitious  ears  might  easily  seem 
to  be  that  of  horror  and  despair. 

These  sounds  were  from  time  to  time  heard  by  the  ser¬ 
vants,  and  revived  in  full  force  the  memory  of  the  old  ghost 
legend.  A  superstitious  creeping  horror  seemed  to  fill  the 
house;  and  though  no  one  dared  to  breathe  it  to  Legree,  he 
found  himself  encompassed  by  it  as  by  an  atmosphere. 

No  one  is  so  thoroughly  superstitious  as  the  godless  man. 
The  Christian  is  composed  by  the  belief  of  a  wise,  all-ruling 
Father,  whose  presence  fills  the  void  unknown  with  light 
and  order  ;  but  to  the  man  wdio  has  dethroned  God  the  spirit 
land  is,  indeed,  in  the  words  of  the  Hebrew  poet,  “  a  land  of 
darkness  and  the  shadow  of  death,”  without  any  order, 
where  the  light  is  as  darkness.  Life  and  death  to  him  are 
haunted  grounds,  filled  with  goblin  forms  of  vague  and 
shadowy  dread. 

Legree  had  had  the  slumbering  moral  element  in  him 
roused  by  his  encounters  with  Tom,— roused,  only  to  be  re¬ 
sisted  by  the  determinate  force  of  evil;  but  still  there  was  a 
thrill  and  commotion  of  the  dark,  inner  world,  produced  by 
every  word,  or  prayer,  or  hymn  that  reacted  in  superstitious 
dread. 

The  influence  of  Gassy  over  him  was  of  a  strange  and 
singular  kind.  He  was  her  owner,  her  tyrant  and  tor¬ 
mentor.  She  was,  as  he  knew,  wholly,  and  without  any 
possibility  of  help  or  redress,  in  his  hands;  and  yet  so  it  is. 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY, 


403 


that  the  most  brutal  man  cannot  live  in  constant  association 
with  a  strong  female  influence  and  not  be  greatly  controlled 
by  it.  When  he  first  bought  her  shea  was,  as  she  had  said,  a 
woman  delicately  bred;  and  then  he  crushed  her  without 
scruple  beneath  the  foot  of  his  brutality.  But  as  time,  and 
debasing  influences,  and  despair  hardened  womanhood  with¬ 
in  her,  and  waked  the  fires  of  fiercer  passions,  she  had  be¬ 
come  in  a  measure  his  mistress,  and  he  alternately 
tyrannized  over  and  dreaded  her. 

This  influence  had  become  more  harassing  and  decided 
since  partial  insanity  had  given  a  strange,  weird,  unsettled 
cast  to  all  her  words  and  language. 

A  night  or  two  after  this  Legree  was  sitting  in  the  old 
sitting  room,  by  the  side  of  a  flickering  wood  fire  that  threw 
uncertain  gleams  round  the  room.  It  was  a  stormy,  windy 
night,  such  as  raises  whole  squadrons  of  nondescript  noises 
in  rickety  old  houses.  Windows  were  rattling,  shutters  flap¬ 
ping,  the  wind  carousing,  rumbling,  and  tumbling  down  the 
chimney,  and,  every  once  in  a  while,  puffing  out  smoke  and 
ashes,  as  if  a  legion  of  spirits  were  coming  after  them. 
Legree  had  been  casting  up  accounts  and  reading  newspa¬ 
pers  for  some  hours,  while  Gassy  sat  in  the  corner  sullenly 
looking  into  the  fire.  Legree  laid  down  his  paper,  and  see¬ 
ing  an  old  book  lying  on  the  table,  which  he  had  noticed 
Cassy  reading  the  first  part  of  the  evening,  took  it  up  and 
began  to  turn  it  over.  It  was  one  of  those  collections  of 
stories  of  bloody  murders,  ghostly  legends,  and  supernatural 
visitations  which,  coarsely  got  up  and  illustrated,  have  a 
strange  fascination  for  one  who  once  begins  to  read  them. 

Legree  poohed  and  pished,  but  read,  turning  page  after 
page,  till  finally,  after  reading  some  way,  he  threw  down  tho 
book  with  an  oath. 

“You  don’t  believe  in  ghosts,  do  you,  Cass?”  said  he, 
faking  the  tongs  and  settling  the  fire.  “  I  thought  you’d 
more  sense  than  to  let  noises  scare  you." 

“  No  matter  what  I  believe,”  said  Gassy  sullenly. 

“  Fellows  used  to  try  to  frighten  me  with  their  yarns  at 
sea,”  said  Legree.  “  Never  come  it  round  me  that  way.  I’m 
too  tough  for  any  such  trash,  tell  ye.” 

Cassy  sat  looking  intently  at  him  in  the  shadow  of  the  cor¬ 
ner.  There  was  that  strange  light  in  her  eyes  that  always 
Impressed  Legree  with  uneasiness. 

“Them  noises  was  nothing  but  rats  and  the  wind,”  said, 


406 


UNCLE  TOM’S  CABZift  J  OE, 

Legree.  “  Rats  will  make  a  devil  of  a  noise.  I  used  to  hear 
’em  sometimes  down  in  the  hold  of  the  ship;  and  wind,— 
Lord’s  sake!  ye  can  make  anything  out  of  wind.” 

Cassy  knew  Legree  was  uneasy  under  her  eyes,  and,  there¬ 
fore,  she  made  no  answer,  but  sat  fixing  them  on  him,  with 
that  strange,  unearthly  expression,  as  before. 

“Come,  speak  out,  woman, — -don’t  you.  think  so?”  said 
Legree. 

“  Can  rats  walk  downstairs,  and  come  walking  through 
the  entry,  and  open  a  door  when  you’ve  locked  it  and  set  a 
chair  against  it?”  said  Cassy;  “and  come  walk,  walk,  walk¬ 
ing  right  up  to  your  bed,  and  put  out  their  hand,  so?  ” 

Cassy  kept  her  glittering  eyes  fixed  on  Legree  as  she 
spoke,  and  he  stared  at  her  like  a  man  in  the  nightmare,  till, 
when  she  finished  bj7,  laying  her  hand,  icy  cold,  on  his,  he 
sprung  back  with  an  oath. 

“  Woman!  what  do  you  mean?  Nobody  did!  ” 

“Oh,  no, — of  course  not, — did  I  say~  they  did?”  said 
Cassy,  with  a  smile  of  chilling  derision. 

“  But— did— have  you  really  seen?— Come,  Cass,  what  is 
it,  now,— speak  out!  ” 

“  You  may  sleep  there  yourself,”  said  Cassy,  “  if  you  want 
to  know.” 

“'Did  it  come  from  the  garret,  Cassy?” 

“It— what?”  said  Cassy. 

“  Why,  what  you  told  of — — ” 

“  I  didn’t  tell  you  anything,”  said  Cassy,  with  dogged 
sullenness. 

Legree  walked  up  and  down  the  room  uneasily. 

“  I’ll  have  this  yer  thing  examined.  I’ll  look  into  it,  this 
very  night.  I’ll  take  my  pistols - ” 

“  Do,”  said  Cassy;  “  sleep  in  that  room.  I’d  like  to  see 
you  doing  it.  Fire  your  pistols,— do!  ” 

Legree  stamped  his  foot,  and  swore  violently. 

“  Don’t  swear,”  said  Cassy;  “  nobody  knows  who  may  be 
hearing  you.  Hark!  What  was  that?” 

“What?”  said  Legree,  starting. 

A  heavy  old  Dutch  clock  that  stood  in  the  corner  of  the 
room  began  and  slowly  struck  twelve. 

For  some  reason  or  other  Legree  neither  spoke  nor  moved! 
a  vague  horror  fell  on  him;  while  Cassy,  with  a  keen,  sneer¬ 
ing  glitter  in  her  eyes,  stood  looking  at  him,  counting  the 
strokes. 


LIPS  AMONG  THIS  LOWLY, 


40? 


“Twelve  o’clock;  well,  now  we’ll  see,”  said  she,  turning, 
and  opening  the  door  into  the  passage  way,  and  standing  as 
if  listening. 

“Hark!  What’s  that?”  said  she,  raising  her  finger. 

“  It’s  only  the  wind.”  said  Legree.  “  Don’t  you  hear  how 
cursedly  it  blows  ?  ” 

“  Simon,  come  here,”  said  Gassy,  in  a  whisper,  laying  her 
hand  on  his,  and  leading  him  to  the  foot  of  the  stairs;  “  do 
you  know  what  that  is?  Hark!  ” 

A  wild  shriek  came  pealing  down  the  stairway.  It  came 
from  the  garret.  Legree’s  knees  knocked  together;  his  face 
grew  white  with  fear. 

“  Hadn’t  you  better  get  your  pistols?  ”  said  Gassy,  with  a 
sneer  that  froze  Legree’s  blood.  “  It’s  time  this  thing  was 
looked  into,  you  know.  I’d  like  to  have  you  go  up  now; 
they’re  at  it” 

“  I  won’t  go!  ”  said  Degree,  with  an  oath. 

“Why  not?  There  an’t  any  such  thing  as  ghosts,  you 
know!  Come!  ”  and  Cassy  flitted  up  the  winding  stairway, 
laughing,  and  looking  back  after  him.  “  Come  on.” 

“  I  believe  you  are  the  devil!  ”  said  Degree.  “  Come  back, 
you  hag, — come  back,  Cass!  You  shan’t  go!  ” 

But  Cassv  laughed  wildly,  and  fled  on.  He  heard  her 
open  the  entry  doors  that  led  to  the  garret.  A  wild  gust  of 
wind  swept  down,  extinguishing  the  candle  he  held  in  his 
hand,  and  with  it  the  fearful,  unearthly  screams;  they  seemed 
to  be  shrieked  in  his  very  ear. 

Degree  fled  frantically  into  the  parlor,  whither  in  a  few 
moments  he  was  followed  by  Gassy,  pale,  calm,  cold  as  an 
avenging  spirit,  and  with  that  same  fearful  light  in  her  eye. 

“  I  hope  you  are  satisfied,”  said  she. 

“  Blast  you,  Cass!  ”  said  Degree. 

“  What  for?  ”  said  Gassy.  “  I  only  went  up  and  shut  the 
doors.  What’s  the  matter  with  that  garret ,  Simon,  do  you  sup¬ 
pose?  ”  said  she. 

“None  of  your  business!”  said  Degree. 

“  Oh,  it  an’t?  Well,”  said  Cassy,  “  at  any  rate,  I’m  glad  I 
don’t  sleep  under  it.” 

Anticipating  the  rising  of  the  wind  that  very  evening, 
Cassy  had  been  up  and  opened  the  garret  window.  Of 
course  the  moment  the  doors  were  opened  the  wind  had 
drafted  down  and  extinguished  the  light. 

This  may  serve  as  a  specimen  of  the  game  that  Cassy. 


408 


UNCLE  tom’s  cabin;  OB, 

played  with  Legree,  unifcl  he  would  sooner  have  put  his  head 
into  a  lion’s  mouth  than  to  have  explored  that  garret.  Mean¬ 
while,  in  the  night,  when  everybody  else  was  asleep.  Gassy 
slowly  and  carefully  accumulated  there  a  stock  of  provisions 
sufficient  to  afford  subsistence  for  some  time;  she  trans¬ 
ferred,  article  by  article,  a  greater  part  of  her  own  and 
Emmeline’s  wardrobe.  All  things  being  arranged,  they  only 
waited  a  fitting  opportunity  to  put  their  plan  in  execution. 

By  cajoling  Legree,  and  taking  advantage  of  a  good- 
natured  interval,  Cassy  had  got  him  to  take  her  with  him  to 
the  neighboring  town,  which  was  situated  directly  on  the  Bed 
Biver.  With  a  memory  sharpened  to  almost  preternatural 
clearness,  she  remarked  every  turn  in  the  road,  and  formed 
a  mental  estimate  of  the  time  to  be  occupied  in  travers¬ 
ing  it. 

At  the  time  when  all  was  matured  for  action,  our  readers 
may  perhaps  like  to  look  behind  the  scenes  and  see  the  final 
coup  d’etat. 

It  was  now  near  evening.  Legree  had  been  absent  on  a 
ride  to  a  neighboring  farm.  For  many  days  Cassy  had  been 
unusually  gracious  and  accommodating  in  her  humors;  and 
Legree  and  she  had  been,  apparently,  on  the  best  of  terms. 
At  present,  we  may  behold  her  and  Emmeline  in  the  room 
of  the  latter  busy  in  sorting  and  arranging  two  small 
bundles. 

“  There,  these  will  be  large  enough,”  said  Cassy.  “Now 
put  on  your  bonnet,  and  let’s  start;  it’s  just  about  the  right 
time.” 

“  Why,  they  can  see  us  yet,”  said  Emmeline. 

“  I  mean  they  shall,”  said  Cassy  coolly.  “  Don’t  you  know 
that  they  must  have  their  chase  after  us,  at  any  rate?  The 
way  of  the  thing  is  to  be  just  this:  We  will  steal  out  of  the 
back  door,  and  run  down  by  the  quarters.  Sambo  or  Quimbo 
will  be  sure  to  see  us.  They  will  give  chase,  and  we  will  get 
into  the  swamp;  then,  they  can’t  follow  us  any  further  till 
they  go  up  and  give  the  alarm,  and  turn  out  the  dogs,  and  so 
on;  and,  while  they  are  blundering  round,  and  tumbling 
over  each  other,  as  they  always  do,  you  and  I  will  just  slip 
along  to  the  creek  that  runs  back  of  the  house,  and  wade 
along  in  it  till  we  get  opposite  the  back  door.  That  will  put 
the  dogs  all  at  fault;  for  scent  won’t  lie  in  the  water.  Every¬ 
one  will  run  out  of  the  house  to  look  after  us,  and  then  we’ll 
.whip  in  at  the  back  door,  and  up  into  the  garret,  where  I’ve 


LIFE  AMOl-CG  THE  LOWLY. 


409 


got  a  nice  bed  made  up  in  one  of  the  great  boxes.  We  must 
stay  in  that  garret  a  good  while;  for,  I  tell  you,  he  will  raise 
heaven  and  earth  after  us.  He’ll  muster  some  of  those  old 
overseers  on  the  other  plantations,  and  have  a  great  hunt; 
and  they’ll  go  over  every  inch  of  ground  in  that  swamp.  He 
makes  it  his  boast  that  nobody  ever  got  away  from  him.  So 
let  him  hunt  at  his  leisure.” 

“  Gassy,  how  well  you  have  planned  it!  ”  said  Emmeline. 
“Who  ever  would  have  thought  of  it,  but  you?” 

There  was  neither  pleasure  nor  exultation  in  Gassy’s  eyes 
— only  a  despairing  firmness. 

“  Come,”  she  said,  reaching  her  hand  to  Emmeline. 

The  two  fugitives  glided  noiselessly  from  the  house  and 
flitted  through  the  gathering  shadows  of  evening  along  by 
the  quarters.  The  crescent  moon,  set  like  a  silver  signet  in 
the  western  sky,  delayed  a  little  the  approach  of  night.  As 
Cassy  expected,  when  quite  near  the  verge  of  the  swamps 
that  encircled  the  plantation,  they  heard  a  voice  calling  to 
them  to  stop.  It  was  not  Sambo,  however,  but  Legree,  who 
was  pursuing  them  with  violent  execrations.  At  the  sound, 
the  feebler  spirit  of  Emmeline  gave  way;  and,  laying  hold  of 
Cassy’s  arm,  she  said,  “  Oh,  Cassy,  I’m  going  to  faint!  ” 

“If  you  do,  I’ll  kill  you!”  said  Cassy,  drawing  a*  small, 
glittering  stiletto,  and  flashing  it  before  the  eyes  of  the  girl. 

The  diversion  accomplished  the  purpose.  Emmeline  did 
not  faint,  and  succeeded  in  plunging,  with  Cassy,  into  a  part 
of  the  labyrinth  of  swamp,  so  deep  and  dark  that  it  was  per¬ 
fectly  hopeless  for  Legree  to  think  of  following  them  with¬ 
out  assistance. 

“Well,”  said  he,  chuckling  brutally;  “  at  any  rate  they’ve 
got  themselves  into  a  trap  now— the  baggages!  They’re  safe 
enough.  They  shall  sweat  for  it! 

“Hulloa,  there!  Sambo!  Quimbo!  All  hands!”  called 
Legree,  coming  to  the  quarters,  when  the  men  and  women 
were  just  returning  from  work.  “  There’s  two  runaways  in 
the  swamps.  I’ll  give  five  dollars  to  any  nigger  as  catches 
’em.  Turn  out  the  dogs!  Turn  out  Tiger,  and  Fury,  and 
the  rest!  ” 

The  sensation  produced  by  this  news  was  immediate. 
Many  of  the  men  sprang  forward  officiously  to  offer  their  ser¬ 
vices,  either  from  the  hope  of  the  reward,  or  from  that  cring¬ 
ing  subserviency  which  is  one  of  the  most  baleful  effects  of 
slavery.  Some  ran  one  way,  and  some  another.  Some  were 


410 


UNCLE  TOM?S  CABIN;  OR, 


for  getting  flambeaux  of  pine-knots.  Some  were  uncoup¬ 
ling  the  dogs,  whose  hoarse,  savage  bay  added  not  a  little  to 
the  animation  of  the  scene. 

“  Mas’r,  shall  we  shoot  ’em,  if  we  can’t  cotch  ’em?  ”  said 
Sambo,  to  whom  his  master  brought  out  a  rifle. 

“  You  may  fire  on  Cass,  if  you  like;  it’s  time  she  was  gone 
to  the  devil,  where  she  belongs;  but  the  gal,  not,”  said  Le- 
gree.  “  And  now,  boys,  be  spry  and  smart.  Five  dollars  for 
him  that  gets  ’em;  and  a  glass  of  spirits  to  everyone  of  you, 
anyhow.” 

The  whole  band,  with  the  glare  of  blazing  torches,  and 
whoop,  and  shout,  and  savage  yell,  of  man  and  beast,  pro¬ 
ceeded  down  to  the  swamp,  followed,  at  some  distance,  by 
every  servant  in.  the  house.  The  establishment  was,  of  a 
consequence,  wholly  deserted  when  Gassy  and  Emmeline 
glided  into  it  the  back  way.  The  whooping  and  shouts  of 
their  pursuers  were  still  filling  the  air;  and  looking  from  the 
sitting-room  windows  Gassy  and  Emmeline  could  see  the 
troop,  with  their  flambeaux,  just  dispersing  themselves 
along  the  edge  of  the  swamp. 

“  See  there!”  said  Emmeline,  pointing,  to  Gassy;  “  the 
hunt  is  begun!  Look  how  those  lights  dance  about!  Hark! 
the  dogs!  Don’t  you  hear?  If  we  were  only  there ,  our  chance 
wouldn’t  be  worth  a  picayune.  Oh,  for  pity’s  sake,  do  let’s 
hide  ourselves.  Quick!  ” 

“  There  is  no  occasion  for  hurry,”  said  Gassy  coolly; 
“  they  are  all  out  after  the  hunt, — that’s  the  amusement  of 
the  evening!  We’ll  go  upstairs,  by  and  by.  Meanwhile,” 
said  she,  deliberately  taking  a  key  from  the  pocket  of  a  coat 
that  Legree  had  thrown  down  in  his  hurry,  “  meanwhile,  I 
shall  take  something  to  pay  our  passage.” 

She  unlocked  the  desk,  took  from  it  a  roll  of  bills,  which 
she  counted  over  rapidly. 

“  Oh,  don’t  let’s  do  that!  ”  said  Emmeline. 

“Don’t!”  said  Gassy;  “why  not?  Would  you  have  us 
starve  in  the  swamps,  or  have  that  that  will  pay  our  way  to 
the  free  States?  Money  will  do  anything,  girl.”  And,  as 
she  spoke,  she  put  the  money  in  her  bosom. 

“  It  would  be  stealing,”  said  Emmeline,  in  a  distressed 
wliisper. 

“  Stealing!  ”  said  Gassy,  with  a  scornful  laugh.  “  They 
who  steal  body  and  soul  needn’t  talk  to  us.  Every  one  of 
these  bills  is  stolen, — stolen  from  poor,  starving,  sweating 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY. 


411 


creatures  who  must  go  to  the  devil  at  last,  for  his  profit.  Let 
him  talk  about  stealing!  But  come,  we  may  as  well  go  up  to 
the  garret;  I’ve  got  a  stock  of  candles  there,  and  some  books 
to  pass  away  the  time.  You  may  be  pretty  sure  they  won’t 
come  there  to  inquire  after  us.  If  they  do,  I’ll  play  ghost 
for  them.” 

When  Emmeline  reached  the  garret  she  found  an  immense 
box,  in  which  some  heavy  pieces  of  furniture  had  once  been 
brought,  turned  on  its  side,  so  that  the  opening  faced  the 
wall,  or  rather  the  eaves.  Gassy  lit  a  small  lamp,  and,  creep¬ 
ing  round  under  the  eaves,  they  established  themselves  in 
it.  It  was  spread  with  a  couple  of  small  mattresses  and  some 
pillows;  a  box  near  by  was  plentifully  stored  with  candles, 
provisions,  and  all  the  clothing  necessary  to  their  journey, 
which  Cassy  had  arranged  into  bundles  of  an  astonishingly 
small  compass. 

“  There,”  said  Cassy,  as  she  fixed  tSe  lamp  into  a  small 
hook,  which  she  had  driven  into  the  side  of  the  box  for  that 
purpose;  “  this  is  to  be  our  home  for  the  present.  How  do 
you  like  it?  ” 

“Are  you  sure  they  won’t  come  and  search  the  garret?” 

“  I’d  like  to  see  Simon  Legree  doing  that,”  said  Cassy. 
“No,  indeed;  he  will  be  too  glad  to  keep  away.  As  to  the 
servants,  they  would  any  of  them  stand  and  be  shot,  sooner 
than  show  their  faces  here.” 

Somewhat  reassured,  Emmeline  settled  herself  back  on 
her  pillow. 

“  What  did  you  mean,  Cassy,  by  saying  you  would  kill 
me?”  she  said  simply. 

“  I  meant  to  stop  your  fainting,”  said  Cassy,  “  and  I  did 
do  it.  And  now  I  tell  you,  Emmeline,  you  must  make  up 
your  mind  not  to  faint,  let  what  will  come;  there’s  no  sort 
of  need  of  it.  If  I  had  not  stopped  you,  that  wretch  might 
have  had  his  hands  on  you  now.” 

Emmeline  shuddered. 

The  two  remained  some  time  in  silence.  Cassy  busied 
herself  with  a  French  book;  Emmeline,  overcome  with  the 
exhaustion,  fell  into  a  doze,  and  slept  some  time.  She  was 
awakened  by  loud  shouts  and  outcries,  the  tramp  of  horses’ 
feet,  and  the  baying  of  dogs.  She  started  up,  wnth  a  faint 
shriek. 

“  Only  the  hunt  coming  back,”  said  Cassy  coolly  ;  “  never 
fear.  Look  out  of  this  knot-hole.  Don’t  you  see  ’em  all 


412 


uncle  tom’s  cabin  ;  OB, 

down  there?  Simon  has  to  give  it  up,  for  this  night.  Look, 
how  muddy  his  horse  is,  flouncing  about  in  the  swamp;  the 
dogs,  too,  look  rather  crestfallen.  Ah,  my  good  sir,  you'll 
have  to  try  the  race  again  and  again — the  game  isn't  there/’ 

65  Oh,  don’t  speak  a  word!  ”  said  Emmeline.  “  What  if 
they  should  hear  you?  ” 

“  If  they  do  hear  anything,  it  will  make  them  very  partic¬ 
ular  to  keep  away,”  said  Gassy.  “  No  danger;  we  may  make 
any  noise  we  please,  and  it  will  only  add  to  the  effect.” 

At  length  the  stillness  of  midnight  settled  down  over  the 
house.  Legree,  cursing  his  ill-luck,  and  vowing  dire  venge¬ 
ance  on  the  morrow,  went  to  bed. 


CHAPTER  XL. 

m 

THE  MARTYR. 

u  Deem  not  the  just  by  Heaven  forgot ! 

Though  life  its  common  gifts  deny,— 

Though,  with  a  crushed  and  bleeding  heart. 

And  spurned  of  man,  lie  goes  to  die  ! 

For  God  hath  marked  each  sorrowing  day, 

And  numbered  every  bitter  tear! 

And  heaven’s  long  years  of  bliss  shall  pay 
For  all  His  children  suffer  here.” 

—Bryant. 

The  longest  day  must  have  its  close, — the  gloomiest  night 
will  wear  on  to  a  morning.  An  eternal,  inexorable  lapse  of 
moments  is  ever  hurrying  the  day  of  the  evil  to  an  eternal 
night,  and  the  night  of  the  just  to  an  eternal  day.  We  have 
walked  with  our  humble  friend  thus  far  in  the  valley  of 
slavery;  first  through  flowery  fields  of  ease  and  indulgence, 
then  through  heart-breaking  separations  from  all  that  man 
holds  dear.  Again,  we  have  waited  with  him  in  a  sunny 
island,  where  generous  hands  concealed  his  chains  with 
flowers;  and,  lastly,  we  have  followed  him  when  the  last  ray 
of  earthly  hope  went  out  in  night,  and  seen  how,  in  the 
blackness  of  earthly  darkness,  the  firmanent  of  the  unseen 
has  blazed  with  stars  of  new  and  significant  luster. 

The  morning  star  now  stands  over  the  tops  of  the  moun¬ 
tains,  and  gales  and  breezes,  not  of  earth,  show  that  the 
gates  of  day  are  unclosing, 

t  The  escape  of  Gassy  and  Emmeline  irritated  the  before 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY. 


413 


surly  temper  of  Legree  to  the  last  degree;  and  his  fury,  as 
was  to  be  expected,  fell  upon  the  defenseless  head  of  Tom. 
When  he  hurriedly  announced  the  tidings  among  his  hands 
there  was  a  sudden  light  in  Tom’s  eye,  a  sudden  upraising 
of  his  hands,  that  did  not  escape  him.  He  saw  that  he  did 
not  join  the  muster  of  the  pursuers.  He  thought  of  forcing 
him  to  do  it;  but  having  had,  of  old,  experience  of  his  inflex¬ 
ibility  when  commanded  to  take  part  in  any  deed  of  inhu¬ 
manity,  he  would  not,  in  his  hurry,  stop  to  enter  into  any 
conflict  with  him. 

Tom,  therefore,  remained  behind,  with  a  few  who  had 
learned  of  him  to  pray,  and  offered  up  prayers  for  the  escape 
of  the  fugitives. 

When  Legree  returned,  baffled  and  disappointed,  all  the 
long-working  hatred  of  his  soul  toward  his  slave  began  to 
gather  in  a  deadly  and  desperate  form.  Had  not  this  man 
braved  him, — steadily,  powerfully,  resistlessly,— ever  since 
he  bought  him?  Was  there  not  a  spirit  in  him  which,  silent 
as  it  was,  burned  on  him  like  the  fires  of  perdition? 

“  I  hate  him! ”  said  Legree  that  night,  as  he  sat  up  in  his 
bed;  “I  hale  him!  And  isn’t  he  mine?  Can’t  I  do  what  I 
like  with  him?  Who’s  to  hinder,  I  wonder?”  And  Legree 
clenched  his  fist,  and  shook  it,  as  if  he  had  something  in  his 
hands  that  he  could  rend  in  pieces. 

But  then,  Tom  was  a  faithful,  valuable  servant;  and 
although  Legree  hated  him  the  more  for  that,  yet  the  con¬ 
sideration  was  still  somewhat  of  a  restraint  to  him. 

The  next  morning  he  determined  to  say  nothing  as  yet; 
to  assemble  a  party  from  some  neighboring  plantations, 
with  dogs  and  guns;  to  surround  the  swamp,  and  go  about 
the  hunt  systematically.  If  it  succeeded,  well  and  good;  if 
not,  he  would  summon  Tom  before  him,  and— his  teeth 
clenched  and  his  blood  boiled — then  he  would  break  that  fel¬ 
low  down,  or— there  was  a  dire  inward  whisper,  to  which  his 
soul  assented. 

Ye  say  that  the  interest  of  the  master  is  a  sufficient  safe¬ 
guard  for  the  slave.  In  the  fury  of  man’s  mad  will  he  will 
wittingly,  and  with  open  eyes,  sell  his  own  soul  to  the  devil 
to  gain  his  ends;  and  will  he  be  more  careful  of  his  neigh¬ 
bor’s  body? 

"Well,”  said  Gassy,  the  next  day,  from  the  garret,  as  she 
reconnoitered  through  the  knot-hole,  “  the  hunt’s  going  to 
begin  again  to-day!  ” 


414 


fncle  tom’s  cabin;  or, 

Three  or  four  mounted  horsemen  were  curveting  about 
on  the  space  in  front  of  the  house;  and  one  or  two  leashes 
of  strange  dogs  were  struggling  with  the  negroes  who  held 
them,  baying  and  barking  at  each  other. 

The  men  were,  two  of  them,  overseers  of  plantations  in 
the  vicinity;  and  others  were  some  of  Legree’s  associates 
at  the  tavern-bar  of  a  neighboring  city,  who  had  come  for 
the  interest  of  the  sport.  A  more  hard-favored  set,,  perhaps, 
could  not  be  imagined.  Legree  was  serving  brandy  pro¬ 
fusely  round  among  them,  as  also  among  the  negroes  who 
had  been  detailed  from  the  various  plantations  for  this  ser¬ 
vice;  for  it  was  an  object  to  make  every  service  of  this  kind, 
among  the  negroes,  as  much  of  a  holiday  as  possible. 

Cassy  placed  her  ear  at  the  knot-hole;  and,  as  the  morn¬ 
ing  air  blew  directly  toward  the  house,  she  could  overhear  a 
good  deal  of  the  conversation.  A  grave  sneer  overcast  the 
dark,  severe  gravity  of  her  face  as  she  listened  and  heard 
them  divide  out  the  ground,  discuss  the  rival  merits  of  the 
dogs,  give  orders  about  firing,  and  the  treatment  of  each  in 
case  of  capture. 

Gassy  drew  back;  and,  clasping  her  hands,  looked  upward, 
and  said,  “  0  great  Almighty  God!  we  are  all  sinners;  but 
what  have  we  done,  more  than  all  the  rest  of  the  world,  that 
we  should  be  treated  so?  ” 

There  was  a  terrible  earnestness  in  her  face  and  voice  as 
she  spoke. 

“  If  it  wasn’t  for  you ,  child,”  she  said,  looking  at  Emme¬ 
line,  “  I’d  go  out  to  them;  and  I’d  thank  any  one  of  them 
that  would  shoot  me  down!  for  what  use  will  freedom  be  to 
me?  Can  it  give  me  back  my  children,  or  make  me  what  I 
used  to  be?  ” 

Emmeline,  in  her  childlike  simplicity,  was  half  afraid  of 
the  dark  moods  of  Cassy.  She  looked  perplexed,  but  made 
no  answer.  She  only  took  her  hand  with  a  gentle,  caressing 
movement. 

a  Don’t!  ”  said  Cassy,  trying  to  draw  it  away;  “  you’ll  get 
me  to  loving  you;  and  i  never  mean  to  love  anything 
again!  ” 

“Poor  Cassy!”  said  Emmeline,  “don’t  feel  so!  If  the 
Lord  gives  us  liberty,  perhaps  he’ll  give  you  back  your 
daughter;  at  any  rate.  I’ll  be  like  a  daughter  to  ycfu.  I  know 
I’ll  never  <me  my  poor  old  mother  again!  I  shall  love  vous 
Cassy,  whether  you  love  me  or  not!  ” 


LIFE  AM02TG  THE  LOWLY,  415 

The  gentle,  childlike  spirit  conquered.  Gassy  sat  down 
by  her,  put  her  arm  round  her  neck,  stroked  her  soft,  brown 
hair;  and  Emmeline  then  wondered  at  the  beauty  of  her 
magnificent  eyes,  now  soft  with  tears. 

“  Oh,  Em!  **  said  Gassy,  “Fve  hungered  for  my  children, 
and  thirsted  for  them,  and  my  eyes  fail  with  longing  for 
them!  Here!  here!  **  she  said,  striking  her  breast,  “  it’s  all 
desolate,  all  empty!  If  God  would  give  me  back  my  chil¬ 
dren,  then  I  could  pray/* 

“  You  must  trust  him,  Gassy/*  said  Emmeline;  “  he  is 
our  Father!  ** 

“  His  wrath  is  upon  us/*  said  Gassy;  “  he  has  turned  away 
in  anger.** 

“  No,  Gassy!  He  will  be  good  to  us!  Let  us  hope  in  him/* 
said  Emmeline, — “  I  always  have  had  hope.** 

The  hunt  was  long,  animated,  and  thorough,  but  unsuc¬ 
cessful;  and  with  grave,  ironic  exultation,  Cassy  looked  down 
on  Legree  as,  weary  and  dispirited, he  alighted  from  his  horse. 

“  Now,  Quimbo/*  said  Legree,  as  he  stretched  himself 
down  in  the  sitting  room,  “  you  jest  go  and  walk  that  Tom 
up  here,  right  away!  The  old  cuss  is  at  the  bottom  of  this 
yer  whole  matter;  and  1*11  have  it  out  of  his  old  black  hide, 
or  1*11  know  the  reason  why.** 

Sambo  and  Quimbo,  both,  though  hating  each  other,  were 
joined  in  one  mind  by  a  no  less  cordial  hatred  of  Tom.  Le¬ 
gree  had  told  them,  at  first,  that  he  had  bought  him  for  a 
general  overseer,  in  his  absence;  and  this  had  begun  an  ill- 
will  on  their  part,  which  had  increased  in  their  debased  and 
servile  natures  as  they  saw  him  becoming  obnoxious  to  their 
masters  displeasure.  Quimbo,  therefore,  departed,  with  a 
will,  to  execute  his  orders. 

Tom  heard  the  message  with  a  forewarning  heart;  for  he 
knew  all  the  plan  of  the  fugitives*  escape,  and  the  place  of 
their  present  concealment;  he  knew  the  deadly  character  of 
the  man  he  had  to  deal  with,  and  his  despotic  power.  But 
he  felt  strong  in  God  to  meet  death,  rather  than  betray  the 
helpless. 

He  set  his  basket  down  by  the  row,  and,  looking  up,  said, 
“  Into  Thy  hands  I  commend  my  spirit!  Thou  hast  re¬ 
deemed  me.  0  Lord  God  of  Truth!  ”  and  then  quietly  yielded 
himself  to  the  rough,  brutal  grasp  with  which  Quimbo  seized 

him. 


410 


un-cle  tom’s  cfcm;  o% 

**Aye,  aye/’  said  the  giant,  as  he  dragged  him  along;  *  ye’ll 
coteh  it,  now!  Pll  be  boun’  masYs  backus  up  high!  No  sneak¬ 
ing  out,  now!  Tell  ye,  ye’ll  get  it,  and  no  mistake!  See 
how  ye’ll  look,  now,  helpin’  mas’r’s  niggers  to  run  away!  See 
what  ye’ll  get!  ” 

The  savage  words  none  of  them  reached  that  ear!— a  higher 
voice  there  was  saying,  “  Fear  not  them  that  kill  the  body, 
and,  after  that,  have  no  more  that  they  can  do.”  Nerve  and 
bone  of  that  poor  man’s  body  vibrated  to  those  words,  as  if 
touched  by  the  finger  of  God;  and  he  felt  the  strength  of  a 
thousand  souls  in  one.  As  he  passed  along,  the  trees  and 
bushes,  the  huts  of  his  servitude,  the  whole  scene  of  his 
degradation,  seemed  to  whirl  by  him  as  the  landscape  by  the 
rushing  ear.  His  soul  throbbed— his  home  was  in  sight,— 
and  the  hour  of  release  seemed  at  hand. 

“  Well,  Tom!”  said  Legree,  walking  up  and  seizing  him 
grimly  by  the  collar  of  his  coat,  and  speaking  through  his 
teeth,  in  a  paroxysm  of  determined  rage,  “  do  you  know  I’ve 
made  up  my  mind  to  kill  yon?” 

“  It’s  very  likely,  mas’r,”  said  Tom  calmly. 

“  I  have ,”  said  Legree,  with  grim,  terrible  calmness,  “  done 
—just — that— thing,  Tom,  unless  you’ll  tell  me  what  you 
know  about  these  yer  gals!  ” 

Tom  stood  silent. 

“  D’ye  hear?  ”  said  Legree,  stamping,  with  a  roar  like  that 
of  an  incensed  lion.  “  Speak!  ” 

“ I  hardt  got  nothing  to  tell ,  mas’r,*  said  Tom,  with  a  slow, 
firm,  deliberate  utterance, 

“  Do  ye  dare  tell  me,  ye  old  black  Christian,  ye  don’t 
know?”  said  Legree. 

Tom  was  silent. 

“  Speak!  ”  thundered  Legree,  striking  him  furiously.  “  Do 
you  know  anything?  ” 

“  I  know,  mas’r;  but  I  can’t  tell  anything.  I  can  die!  ” 

Legree  drew  in  a  long  breath;  and,  suppressing  his  rage, 
took  Tom  by  the  arm,  and,  approaching  his  face  almost  to 
’his,  said  in  a  terrible  voice,  a  Hark  ’e,  Tom!- — ye  think,  ’cause 
I’ve  let  you  off  before,  I  don’t  mean  what  1  say;  but,  this 
time*  I’ve  made  up  my  mind ,  and  counted  the  cost.  You’ve 
always  stood  it  out  agin  me:  now,  I’ll  conquer  ye  or  kill  ye!— 
one  or  t’other.  I’ll  count  every  drop  of  blood  there  is  in 
you,  and  take  ’em,  one  by  one,  till  ye  give  up!  ” 

Tom  looked  up  to  his  master*  and  answered,  “  Mas’r,  if 


LIFE  AMONG  THE-  LOWLY.  417 

you  was  sick,  or  in  trouble,  or  dying,  and  I  could  save  ye, 
I’d  give  ye  my  heart’s  blood;  and,  if  taking  every  drop  of 
blood  in  this  poor  old  body  would  save  your  precious  soul, 
Fd  give  ’em  freely,  as  the  Lord  gave  his  for  me.  Oh,  mas’r! 
don’t  bring  this  great  sin  on  your  soul!  It  will  hurt  you 
more  than  ’twill  me!  Do  the  worst  you  can  my  troubles  ’ll 
be  over  soon;  but,  if  ye  don’t  repent,  yours  won’t  never 
end!  ” 

Like  a  strange  snatch  of  heavenly  music,  heard  in  the 
lull  of  a  tempest,  this  burst  of  feeling  made  a  moment’s 
blank  pause.  Legree  stood  aghast,  and  looked  at  Tom;  and 
there  was  such  a  silence  that  the  tick  of  the  old  clock  could 
be  heard,  measuring,  with  silent  touch,  the  last  moments  of 
mercy  and  probation  to  that  hardened  heart. 

It  was  but  a  moment.  There  was  one  hesitating  pause, — 
one  irresolute,  relenting  thrill,— and  the  spirit  of  evil  came 
back,  with  sevenfold  vehemence:  and  Legree,  foaming  with 
rage,  smote  his  victim  to  the  ground. 

Scenes  of  blood  and  cruelty  are  shocking  to  our  ear  and 
heart.  What  man  has  nerve  to  do,  man  has  not  nerve  to 
hear.  What  brother-man  and  brother- Christian  must  suffer 
cannot  be  told  us,  even  in  our  secret  chamber,  it  so  harrows 
up  the  soul!  And  yet,  oh,  my  country!  these  things  are  done 
under  the  shadow  of  thy  laws!  0  Christ!  Thy  church  sees 
them,  almost  in  silence! 

But,  of  old,  there  was  One  whose  sufferings  changed  an 
instrument  of  torture,  degradation,  and  shame  into  a  symbol 
of  glory,  honor,  and  immortal  life;  and,  where  his  spirit  is, 
neither  degrading  stripes,  nor  blood,  nor  insults  can  make 
the  Christian’s  last  struggle  less  than  glorious. 

Was  he  alone,  that  long  night,  whose  brave,  loving  spirit 
was  bearing  up,  in  that  old  shed,  against  buffeting  and 
brutal  stripes? 

Nay!  There  stood  by  him  One,— seen  by  him  alone, — 
“  like  unto  the  Son  of  God.” 

The  tempter  stood  by  him,  too, — blinded  by  furious,  des¬ 
potic  will, — every  moment  pressing  him  to  shun  that  agony 
by  the  betrayal  of  the  innocent.  But  the  brave,  true  heart 
was  firm,  on  the  Eternal  Bock.  Like  his  Master,  he  knew 
that  if  he  saved  others,  himself  he  could  not  save;  nor  could 
utmost  e^remity  wring  from  him  words,  save  of  prayer  and 
holy  trust. 


418 


UNCLE  TOM*S  CABIN  ;  OBf 

“  He’s  most  gone,  mas’r,”  said  Sambo,  touched,  m  spite  of 
himself,  by  the  patience  of  his  victim. 

“Fay  away,  till  he  gives  up!  Give  it  to  him!  give  it  to 
him!  ”  shouted  Legree.  “  I’ll  take  every  drop  of  blood  he 
has,  unless  he  confesses!  ” 

Tom  opened  his  eyes,  and  looked  upon  his  master.  “Ye 
poor  miserable  crittur!  ”  he  said,  “there  an’t  no  more  ye 
can  do!  I  forgive  ye,  with  all  my  soul!  ”  and  he  fainted 
entirely  away. 

“  I  b’lieve,  my  soul,  he’s  done  for  finally,”  said  Legree, 
stepping  forward  to  look  at  him.  “Yes,  he  is!  Well,  his 
mouth’s  shut  up,  at  last, — that’s  one  comfort!  ” 

Yes,  Legrea;  but  who  shall  shut  up  that  voice  in  thy  soul; 
that  soul,  past  repentance,  past  prayer,  past  hope,  in  whom 
the  fire  that  never  shall  be  quenched  is  already  burning! 

Yet  Tom  was  not  quite  gone.  His  wondrous  words  and 
pious  prayers  had  struck  upon  the  hearts  of  the  imb rated 
blacks  who  had  been  the  instruments  of  cruelty  upon  him; 
and  the  instant  Legree  withdrew  they  took  him  down,  and, 
in  their  ignorance,  sought  to  call  him  back  to  life,— as  if  that 
were  any  favor  to  him. 

“  Sartin,  we’s  been  doin’  a  drefful  wicked  thing!  ”  said 
Sambo  sorrowfully;  “  hopes  mas’r  ’ll  have  to  ’count  for  it, 
and  not  we.” 

They  washed  his  wounds, — they  provided  a  rude  bed  of 
some  refuse  cotton  for  him  to  lie  down  on;  and  one  of  them, 
stealing  up  to  the  house,  begged  a  drink  of  brandy  of  Legree, 
pretending  that  he  was  tired  and  wanted  it  for  himself.  He 
brought  it  back  and  poured  it  down  Tom’s  throat. 

“  Oh,  Tom!  ”  said  Quimbo,  “  we’ve  been  awful  wicked 
to  ye!  ” 

“  I  forgive  ye,  with  all  my  heart!  ”  said  Tom  faintly. 

“Oh,  Tom!  do  tell  us  who  is  Jesus ,  anyhow?”  said 
Sambo,— “  Jesus,  that’s  been  a~standin’  by  you  so,  all  this 
night?  Who  is  he?  ” 

The  word  roused  the  failing,  fainting  spirit.  He  poured 
forth  a  few  energetic  sentences  of  that  wondrous  One, — his 
life,  his  death,  his  everlasting  presence,  and  power  to  save. 

They  wept,— both  the  two  savage  men. 

“  Why  didn’t  I  never  hear  this  before?  ”  said  Sambo;  “  but 
I  do  believe! — I  can’t  help  it!  Lord  Jesus,  have  mercy 
ion  us!  ” 

“Foor  altars!”  said  Tom,  “I’d  be  willin’  to  bar  all  I 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY*  419 

have,  if  it  ’ll  only  bring  ye  to  Christ!  0  Lord!  give  me  these 
two  more  souls,  I  pray! ” 

That  prayer  was  answered. 

CHAPTER  XLI. 

THE  YOUNG  MASTEE. 

Two  days  after  a  young  man  drove  a  light  wagon  up 
through  the  avenue  of  China  trees,  and,  throwing  the  reins 
hastily  on  the  horse’s  neck,  sprang  out  and  inquired  for  the 
owner  of  the  place. 

It  was  George  Shelby;  and  to  show  how  he  came  to  be 
there  we  must  go  back  in  our  story. 

The  letter  of  Miss  Ophelia  to  Mrs.  Shelby  had,  by  some 
unfortunate  accident,  been  detained  for  a  month  or  two  at 
some  remote  post-office  before  it  reached  its  destination; 
and,  of  course,  before  it  was  received  Tom  was  already  lost 
to  view  among  the  distant  swamps  of  the  Red  River. 

Mrs.  Shelby  read  the  intelligence  with  the  deepest  con¬ 
cern;  but  any  immediate  action  upon  it  was  an  impossibility. 
She  was  then  in  attendance  on  the  sick-bed  of  her  husband, 
who  lay  delirious  in  the  crisis  of  a  fever.  Master  George 
Shelby,  who,  in  the  interval,  had  changed  from  a  boy  to  a 
tall  young  man,  was  her  constant  and  faithful  assistant,  and 
her  only  reliance  in  superintending  his  father’s  affairs.  Miss 
Ophelia  had  taken  the  precaution  to  send  them  the  name  of 
the  lawyer  who  did  business  for  the  St.  Clares;  and  the  most 
that,  in  the  emergency,  could  be  done,  was  to  address  a  let¬ 
ter  of  inquiry  to  him.  The  sudden  death  of  Mr.  Shelby,  a 
few  days  after,  brought,  of  course,  an  absorbing  pressure  of 
other  interests  for  a  season. 

Mr.  Shelby  showed  his  confidence  in  his  wife’s  ability,  by 
appointing  her  sole  executrix  upon  his  estates;  and  thus 
immediately  a  large  and  complicated  amount  of  business  was 
brought  upon  her  hands. 

Mrs.  Shelby,  with  characteristic  energy,  applied  herself 
to  the  work  of  straightening  the  entangled  web  of  affairs; 
and  she  and  George  were  for  some  time  occupied  with  col¬ 
lecting  and  examining  accounts,  selling  property,  and  set¬ 
tling  debts;  for  Mrs.  Shelby  was  determined  that  everything 
should  be  brought  into  tangible  and  recognisable  «hap%  let 


4S0 


tingle  tom’s  cllbin;  cb, 

the  consequences  to  her  prove  what  they  might.  In  the 
meantime  they  received  a  letter  from  the  lawyer  to  whom 
Miss  Ophelia  had  referred  them,  saying  that  he  knew  noth¬ 
ing  of  the  matter:  that  the  man  was  sold  at  a  puolie  auction, 
and  that,  beyond  receiving  the  money,  he  knev/  nothing  of 
the  affair. 

Neither  George  nor  Mrs.  Shelby  could  be  easy  at  this  re¬ 
sult;  and  accordingly  some  six  months  after,  the  latter, 
having  business  for  his  mother  down  the  river,  resolved  tos 
visit  New  Orleans  in  person,  and  push  his  inquiries,  in  hopes 
of  discovering  Tom’s  whereabouts,  and  restoring  him. 

After  some  months  of  unsuccessful  search,  by  the  merest 
accident  George  fell  in  with  a  man,  in  New  Orleans,  who 
happened  to  be  possessed  of  the  desired  information;  and 
with  his  money  in  his  pocket  our  hero  took  steamboat  for 
Red  River,  resolving  to  find  out  and  repurchase  his  old 
friend. 

He  was  soon  introduced  into  the  house,  where  he  found 
Legree  in  the  sitting  room. 

Legree  received  the  stranger  with  a  kind  of  surly  hospi¬ 
tality. 

a  I  understand,”  said  the  young  man,  “  that  you  bought 
in  New  Orleans  a  boy  named  Tom.  He  used  to  be  on  my 
father’s  place,  and  I  came  to  see  if  1  couldn’t  buy  him  back.” 

Legree’s  brow  drew  dark,  and  he  broke  out  passionately: 
“  Yes,  I  did  buy  such  a  fellow, —and  a  h — — 1  of  a  bargain  I 
had  of  it  too!  The  most  rebellious,  saucy,  impudent  dog! 
Set  up  my  niggers  to  run  away;  got  off  two  gals,  worth  eight 
hundred  or  a  thousand  dollars  apiece.  He  owned  to  that, 
and  when  I  bid  him  tell  me  where  they  was,  he  up  and  said 
he  knew,  but  he  wouldn’t  tell;  and  stood  to  it,  though  I  gave 
him  the  cussedest  flogging  I  ever  gave  nigger  yet.  I 
b’lieve  he’s  trying  to  die:  but  I  don’t  know  as  he’ll  make  it 
out.” 

“  Where  is  he?”  said  George  impetuously.  “Let  me  see 
him.”  The  cheeks  of  the  young  man  were  crimson,  and  his 
eyes  flashed  fire;  but  he  prudently  said  nothing,  as  yet. 

“  He’s  in  dat  ar  shed,”  said  a  little  fellow,  who  stood  hold¬ 
ing  George’s  horse. 

Legree  kicked  the  boy,  and  swore  at  him;  but  George, 
without  saying  another  word,  turned  and  strode  to  the  spot. 

Tom.  had  been  lying  two  days  since  the  fatal  night;  not 
suffering,  for  every  nerve  of  suffering  was  blunted  and  de- 


LIFE  AMONG  Tim  LOWLY, 


421 


stroyed.  He  lay,  for  the  most  part,  in  a  quiet  stupor;  for 
the  laws  of  a  powerful  and  well-knit  frame  would  not  at 
once  release  the  imprisoned  spirit.  By  stealth  there  had 
been  there,  in  the  darkness  of  the  night,  poor,  desolated 
creatures,  who  stole  from  their  scanty  hour’s  rest  that  they 
might  repay  to  him  some  of  those  ministrations  of  love  in 
which  he  had  always  been  so  abundant.  Truly,  those  poor 
disciples  had  little  to  give,— only  the  cup  of  cold  water;  but 
it  was  given  with  full  hearts. 

,  Tears  had  fallen  on  that  honest,  insensible  face, — tears 
of  late  repentance  in  the  poor,  ignorant  heathen,  whom  his 
dying  love  and  patience  had  awakened  to  repentance,  and 
bitter  prayers  breathed  over  him  to  a  late-found  Saviour,  of 
whom  they  scarce  knew  more  than  the  name,  but  whom  the 
yearning,  ignorant  heart  of  man  never  implores  in  vain. 

Gassy  who  had  glided  out  of  her  place  of  concealment, 
and,  by  overhearing,  learned  the  sacrifice  that  had  been 
made  for  her  and  Emmeline,  had  been  there  the  night  be¬ 
fore,  defying  the  danger  of  detection;  and,  moved  by  the  few 
last  words  which  the  affectionate  soul  had  yet  strength  to 
breathe,  the  long  winter  of  despair,  the  ice  of  years,  had 
given  way,  and  the  dark,  despairing  woman  had  wept  and 
prayed. 

When  George  entered  the  shed  he  felt  his  head  giddy  and 
his  heart  sick. 

“  Is  it  possible,— is  it  possible!”  said  he,  kneeling  down 
by  him.  “  Uncle  Tom,  my  poor,  poor  old  friend!  ” 

Something  in  the  voice  penetrated  to  the  ear  of  the  dying. 
He  moved  his  head  gently,  smiled,  and  said: 

14  Jesus  can  make  a  dying  bed 
Feel  soft  as  downy  pillows  are.” 

Tears  which  did  honor  to  his  manly  heart  fell  from  the 
young  man’s  eyes,  as  he  bent  over  his  poor  friend. 

“  Oh,  dear  Uncle  Tom!  do  wake, — do  speak  once  more! 
Look  up!  Here’s  Mas’r  George, — your  own  little  Mas’r 
George.  Don’t  you  know  me?  ” 

“ Mas’r  George!”  said  Tom,  opening  his  eyes  and  speak¬ 
ing  in  a  feeble  voice.  “  Mas’r  George!  ”  He  looked  be¬ 
wildered. 

Slowly  the  idea  seemed  to  fill  his  soul;  and  the  vacant 
eye  became  fixed  and  brightened,  the  whole  face  lighted  up* 

the  hard  hands  clasped,  and  tears  ran  down  the  cheeks. 


423  uncle  tom’s  cabin;  or, 

“  Bless  the  Lord!  it  is, —it  is,— it’s  all  I  wanted!  They 
haven't  forgot  me.  It  warms  my  soul;  it  does  my  old  heart 
good!  Now  I  shall  die  content!  Bless  the  Lord,  oh,  my 
soul!” 

“  You  shan't  die!  you  mustn’t  die,  nor  chink  of  it.  I've 
come  to  buy  you  and  take  you  home,”  said  George,  with 
impetuous  vehemence. 

“  Oh,  Mas'r  George,  ye're  too  late.  The  Lord's  bought 
me  and  is  going  to  take  me  home, — and  I  long  to  go.  Heaven 
is  better  than  Kintuck.” 

“  Oh,  don't  die!  It  'll  kill  me! — -it  'll  break  my  heart  to 
think  what  you've  suffered, — and  lying  in  this  old  shed 
here!  Poor,  poor  fellow!  " 

“  Don't  call  me  poor  fellow!  ”  said  Tom  solemnly.  “  I 
have  been  poor  fellow;  but  that's  all  past  and  gone  now.  I'm 
right  in  the  door,  going  into  glory!  Oh,  Mas'r  George! 
Heaven  has  come!  I've  got  the  victory! — the  Lord  Jesus 
has  given  it  to  me!  Glory  be  to  his  name!  ” 

George  was  awe-struck  at  the  force,  the  vehemence,  the 
power  with  which  these  broken  sentences  were  uttered.  He 
sat  gazing  in  silence. 

Tom  grasped  his  hand  and  continued,— “  Ye  mustn't, 
now,  tell  Chloe,  poor  soul!  how  ye  found  me; — 'twould  be 
so  drefful  to  her.  Only  tell  her  ye  found  me  going  into 
glory;  and  that  I  couldn't  stay  for  no  one.  And  tell  her  the 
Lord's  stood  by  me  everywhere  and  al'ays,  and  made  every¬ 
thing  light  and  easy.  And  oh,  the  poor  ehil'en  and  the  baby! 
—my  old  heart's  been  most  broke  for  'em,  time  and  agin! 
Tell  'em  all  to  follow  me— follow  me!  Give  my  love  to 
mas'r,  and  dear,  good  missis,  and  everybody  in  the  place! 
Ye  don't  know!  'Pears  like  I  loves  'em  all!  I  loves  every 
creatur'  everywhar!— it's  nothing  hut  love!  Oh,  Mas'r 
George,  what  a  thing  'tis  to  be  a  Christian!  ” 

At  this  moment  Legree  sauntered  up  to  the  door  of  the 
shed,  looked  in  with  a  dogged  air  of  affected  carelessness, 
and  turned  away. 

“  The  old  Satan!  ”  said  George,  in  his  indignation.  “  It's 
a  comfort  to  think  the  devil  will  pay  him  for  this,  some  of 
these  days!” 

“  Oh,  don't!— oh,  ye  mustn't!  ”  said  Tom,  grasping  his 
hand;  “  he's  a  poor  mis'able  crittur!  it's  awful  to  think  on't! 
Oh,  if  he  only  could  repent,  the  Lord  would  forgive  him  now; 
hut  I'm  'feared  he  never  will!  ” 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY, 


423 


“ I  hope  he  won’t!  ”  said  George;  “I  never  want  to  see 
him  in  heaven! ” 

“  Hush,  Mas’r  George !— it  worries  me!  Don’t  feel  so! 
He  aint  done  me  no  real  harm, — only  opened  the  gate  of  the 
kingdom  for  me;  that’s  all!  ” 

At  this  moment  the  sudden  flush  of  strength  which  the 
joy  of  meeting  his  young  master  had  infused  into  the  dying 
man  gave  way.  A  sudden  sinking  fell  upon  him;  he  closed 
his  eyes;  and  that  mysterious  and  sublime  change  passed 
over  his  face  that  told  the  approach  of  other  worlds 

He  began  to  draw  his  breath  with  long,  deep  inspirations, 
and  his  broad  chest  rose  and  fell  heavily.  The  expression 
of  his  face  was  that  of  a  conqueror. 

“  Who — who — -who  shall  separate  us  from  the  love  of 
Christ?”  he  said,  in  a  voice  that  contended  with  mortal 
weakness;  and,  with  a  smile,  he  fell  asleep. 

George  sat  fixed  with  solemn  awe.  It  seemed  to  him  that 
the  place  was  holy;  and,  as  he  closed  the  lifeless  eyes  and 
rose  up  from  the  dead,  only  one  thought  possessed  him,— 
that  expressed  by  his  simple  old  friend,— a  What  a  thing  it 
is  to  be  a  Christian!  ” 

He  turned;  Legree  was  standing  sullenly  behind  him. 

Something  in  that  dying  scene  Lad  checked  the  natural 
fierceness  of  youthful  passion.  The  presence  of  the  man 
was  simply  loathsome  to  George;  and  he  felt  only  an  impulse 
to  get  away  from  him  with  as  few  words  as  possible. 

Fixing  his  keen  dark  eyes  on  Legree,  he  simply  said, 
pointing  to  the  dead,  “  You  have  got  all  you  ever  can  of  him. 
What  shall  I  pay  you  for  the  body?  I  will  take  it  away  and 
bury  it  decently.” 

“I  don’t  sell  dead  niggers,”  said  Legree  doggedly.  “  You 
are  welcome  to  bury  him  where  and  when  you  like.” 

“  Boys,”  said  George,  in  an  authoritative  tone,  to  two  or 
three  negroes  who  wTere  looking  at  the  body,  “  help  me 
lift  him  up  and  carry  him  to  my  wagon;  and  get  me  a 
spade.” 

One  of  them  ran  for  a  spade;  the  other  two  assisted  George 
to  carry  the  body  to  the  wagon. 

George  neither  spoke  to  nor  looked  at  Legree,  who  did  not 
countermand  his  orders,  but  stood,  whistling,  with  an  air 
of  forced  unconcern.  He  sulkily  followed  them  to  where  the 
wagon  stood  at  the  door. 

George  spread  his  cloak  in  the  wagon  and  had  the  body 


424 


UNCLE  tom’s  cabin  ;  OR, 


carefully  disposed  of  in  it, — moving  the  seat  so  as  to  give  it 
room.  Then  he  turned,  fixed  his  eyes  on  Legree,  and  said, 
with  forced  composure: 

“  I  have  not  as  yet  said  to  you  what  I  think  of  this  most 
atrocious  affair; — this  is  not  the  time  and  place.  But,  sir, 
this  innocent  blood  shall  have  justice.  I  will  proclaim  this 
murder.  I  will  go  to  the  very  first  magistrate  and  expose 
you.” 

“  Do!  ”  said  Legree,  snapping  his  fingers  scornfully.  “  Fd 
like  to  see  you  doing  it.  Where  you  going  to  get  witnesses? 
• — how  you  going  to  prove  it?  Come,  now!  ” 

George  saw  at  once  the  force  of  this  defiance.  There  was 
not  a  white  person  on  the  place;  and  in  all  Southern  courts 
the  testimony  of  colored  blood  is  nothing.  He  felt  at  that 
moment  as  if  he  could  have  rent  the  heavens  with  his  hearPs 
indignant  cry  for  justice;  but  in  vain. 

“  After  all,  what  a  fuss  for  a  dead  nigger!  ”  said  Legree. 

The  word  was  as  a  spark  to  a  powder-magazine.  Prudence 
was  never  a  cardinal  virtue  of  the  Kentucky  boy.  George 
turned  and,  with  one  indignant  blow,  knocked  Legree  fiat 
upon  his  face;  and  as  he  stood  over  him,  blazing  with  wrath 
and  defiance,  he  would  have  formed  no  bad  personification 
of  his  great  namesake  triumphing  over  the  dragon. 

Some  men,  however,  are  decidedly  bettered  by  being 
knocked  down.  If  a  man  lays  them  fairly  fiat  in  the  dust 
they  seem  immediately  to  conceive  a  respect  for  him;  and 
Legree  w as  one  of  this  sort.  As  he  rose,  therefore,  and 
brushed  the  dust  from  his  clothes,  he  eyed  the  slowly  re¬ 
treating  wagon  with  some  evident  consideration;  nor  did  he 
open  his  mouth  till  it  was  out  of  sight. 

Beyond  the  boundaries  of  the  plantation  George  had 
noticed  a  dry,  sandy  knoll,  shaded  by  a  few  trees;  there  they 
made  the  grave. 

“  Shall  we  take  off  the  cloak,  mash?”  said  the  negroes, 
when  the  grave  was  ready. 

“  No,  no, — bury  it  with  him!  IPs  all  I  can  give  you  now, 
poor  Tom,  and  you  shall  have  it.” 

They  laid  him  in;  and  the  men  shoveled  away  silently. 
They  banked  it  up  and  laid  green  turf  over  it. 

“  You  may  go,  boys,”  said  George,  slipping  a  quarter  into 
the  hand  of  each.  They  lingered  about,  however. 

“  If  young  mash  would  please  buy  us — — ”  said  one. 

“We'd  serve  him  so  faithful!”  said  the  other. 


LIFE  AIIOFG-  THE  LOWLY. 


425 

"  Hard  times  here,  masT!  ”  said  the  first.  "  Do,  masT, 
buy  us,  please!  ” 

fe*  I  can’t, — I  can't!  ”  said  George,  with  difficulty,  motion¬ 
ing  them  off;  “  it’s  impossible! ” 

The  poor  fellows  looked  dejected  and  walked  off  in 
silence. 

"Witness,  eternal  God!”  said  George,  kneeling  on  the 
grave  of  his  poor  friend;  "oh,  witness  that,  from  this  hour, 
I  will  do  ivhat  one  man  can  to  drive  out  this  curse  of  slavery 
from  my  land!  ” 

There  is  no  monument  to  mark  the  last  resting-place  of 
our  friend.  He  needs  none!  His  Lord  knows  where  he  lies, 
and  will  raise  him  up  immortal,  to  appear  with  him  when  he 
shall  appear  in  his  glory. 

Pity  him  not!  Such  a  life  and  death  is  not  for  pity!  Not 
in  the  riches  of  omnipotence  is  the  chief  glory  of  God;  but 
in  self-denying,  suffering  love!  And  blessed  are  the  men 
whom  he  calls  to  fellowship  with  him,  bearing  their  cross 
after  him  with  patience.  Of  such  it  is  written,  "  Blessed 
are  they  that  mourn,  for  they  shall  be  comforted.” 


CHAPTER  XLII. 

AN  AUTHENTIC  GHOST  STORY. 

For  some  remarkable  reason  ghostly  legends  were  uncom¬ 
monly  rife  about  this  time  among  the  servants  on  Legree’s 

place. 

It  was  whisperingly  asserted  that  footsteps,  in  the  dead  of 
night,  had  been  heard  descending  the  garret  stairs  and 
patrolling  the  house.  In  vain  the  doors  of  the  upper  entry 
had  been  locked;  the  ghost  either  carried  a  duplicate  key 
in  its  pocket  or  availed  itself  of  a  ghost’s  immemorial  privi¬ 
lege  of  coming  through  the  keyhole,  and  promenading,  as 
before,  with  a  freedom  that  was  alarming. 

Authorities  were  somewhat  divided  as  to  the  outward 
form  of  the  spirit,  owing  to  a  custom  quite  prevalent  among 
negroes, — and,  for  aught  we  know,  among  whites,  too, — of 
invariably  shutting  the  eyes  and  covering  up  heads  under 
blankets,  petticoats,  or  whatever  else  might  come  in  me 
for  a  shelter  on  these  occasions.  Of  course,  as  everybody 
knows,  when  the  bodily  eyes  are  thus  out  of  the  lists*  th@ 


428 


tJHOLE  tom’s  cabin;  OB, 


spiritual  eyes  are  uncommonly  vivacious  and  perspicuous; 
and,  therefore,  there  were  abundance  of  full-length  por¬ 
traits  of  the  ghost,  abundantly  sworn  and  testified  to,  which, 
as  is  often  the  case  with  portraits,  agreed  with  each  other 
in  no  particular  except  the  common  family  peculiarity  of 
the  ghost  tribe, — the  wearing  of  a  white  sheet .  The  poor  souls 
were  not  versed  in  ancient  history  and  did  not  know  that 
Shakspere  had  authenticated  this  costume,  by  telling  how 

“  The  sheeted  dead 

Did  squeak  and  gibber  in  the  streets  of  Eome.,, 

And,  therefore,  their  all  hitting  upon  this  is  a  striking 
fact  in  pneumatology,  wdiich  we  recommend  to  the  atten¬ 
tion  of  spiritual  media  generally. 

Be  it  as  it  may,  we  have  private  reasons  for  knowing  that 
a  tall  figure  in  a  white  sheet  did  walk,  at  the  most  approved 
ghostly  hours,  around  the  Legree  premises,- — pass  out  the 
doors,  glide  about  the  house, — disappear  at  intervals,  and, 
reappearing,  pass  up  the  silent  stairway  into  that  fatal 
garret;  and  that  in  the  morning  the  entry  doors  were  all 
found  shut  and  locked  as  firm  as  ever. 

Legree  could  not  help  overhearing  this  whispering;  and 
it  was  all  the  more  exciting  to  him  from  the  pains  that  were 
taken  to  conceal  it  from  him.  He  drank  more  brandy  than 
usual;  held  up  his  head  briskly,  and  swore  louder  than 
ever  in  the  daytime;  but  he  had  bad  dreams,  and  the  visions 
of  his  head  on  his  bed  were  anything  but  agreeable.  The 
night  after  Tom’s  body  had  been  carried  away  he  rode  to 
the  next  town  for  a  carouse,  and  had  a  high  one.  Got  home 
late  and  tired;  locked  his  door,  took  out  the  key,  and  went 
to  bed. 

After  all,  let  a  man  take  what  pains  he  may  to  hush  it 
down,  a  human  soul  is  an  awful,  ghostly,  unquiet  possession 
for  a  bad  man  to  have.  Who  knows  the  metes  and  bounds 
of  it?  Who  knows  all  its  awful  perhapses, — those  shud- 
derings  and  tremblings,  which  it  can  no  more  live  down  than 
it  can  outlive  its  own  eternity!  What  a  fool  is  he,  who  locks 
his  door  to  keep  out  spirits,  who  has  in  his  own  bosom  a 
spirit  he  dares  not  meet  alone,— whose  voice,  smothered  far 
down,  and  piled  over  with  mountains  of  earthliness,  is  yet 
like  the  forewarning  trumpet  of  doom! 

But  Legree  locked  his  door  and  set  a  chair  against  it;  he 
get  a  nhrht-lamp  at  the  head  of  his  bed;  and  he  put  hm 


42? 


LIFE  AMONX*  THE  LOWLY. 

pistols  there.  He  examined  the  oatches  and  fastening  of 
the  windows,  and  then  swore  he  “  didn’t  care  for  the  devil 
and  all  his  angels,”  and  went  to  sleep. 

Well,  he  slept,  for  he  was  tired,— slept  soundly.  But 
finally  there  came  over  his  sleep  a  shadow,  a  horror,  an 
apprehension  of  something  dreadful  hanging  over  him.  It 
was  his  mother’s  shroud,  he  thought;  but  Gassy  had  it,  hold¬ 
ing  it  up,  and  showing  it  to  him.  He  heard  a  confused  noise 
of  screams  and  groanings;  and,  with  it  all,  he  knew  he  was 
asleep,  and  he  struggled  to  wake  himself.  He  was  half 
awake.  He  was  sure  something  was  coming  into  his  room. 
He  knew  the  door  was  Gpening,  but  he  could  not  stir  hand 
or  foot.  At  last  he  turned,  with  a  start;  the  door  was  open, 
and  he  saw  a  hand  putting  out  his  light. 

It  was  a  cloudy,  misty  moonlight,  and  there  he  saw  it ! — 
something  white  gliding  in!  He  heard  the  still  rustle  of  its 
ghostly  garments.  It  stood  still  by  his  bed; — a  cold  hand 
touched  his;  a  voice  said,  three  times,  in  a  low,  fearful  whis¬ 
per,  “  Come!  come!  come!  ”  And,  while  he  lay  sweating  with 
terror,  he  knew  not  when  or  how,  the  thing  was  gone.  He 
sprang  out  of  bed  and  pulled  at  the  door.  It  was  shut  and 
locked,  and  the  man  fell  down  in  a  swoon. 

After  this  Legree  became  a  harder  drinker  than  ever  be¬ 
fore.  He  no  longer  drank  cautiously,  prudently,  but  impru¬ 
dently  and  recklessly. 

There  were  reports  around  the  country,  soon  after,  that 
he  was  sick  and  dying.  Excess  had  brought  on  that  fright¬ 
ful  disease  that  seems  to  throw  the  lurid  shadows  of  a  com¬ 
ing  retribution  back  into  the  present  life.  Hone  could  bear 
the  horrors  of  that  sick-room,  when  he  raved  and  screamed, 
and  spoke  of  sights  which  almost  stopped  the  blood  of  those 
who  heard  him;  and,  at  his  dying  bed,  stood  a  stern,  white, 
inexorable  figure,  saying,  “  Come!  come!  come!  ” 

By  a  singular  coincidence,  on  the  very  night  that  this 
vision  appeared  to  Legree,  the  house-door  was  found  open 
in  the  morning,  and  some  of  the  negroes  had  seen  two  white 
figures  gliding  down  the  avenue  toward  the  high-road. 

It  was  near  sunrise  when  Gassy  and  Emmeline  paused  for 
a  moment  in  a  little  knot  of  trees  near  the  town. 

Gassy  was  dressed  after  the  manner  of  the  Creole  Spanish 
ladies —wholly  in  black.  A  small  black  bonnet  on  her  head, 
covered  by  a  veil  thick  with  embroidery,  concealed  her  face* 
It  had  been  agreed  that,  in  their  escape,  she  was  to  oersonate 


428  TJKCLB  T0M*3  CABIN;  OR, 

the  character  of  a  Creole  lady  and  Emmeline  that  of 
servant. 

Brought  up  from  early  life  in  connection  with  the  highest 
society,  the  language,  movements,  and  air  of  Gassy  were  all 
in  agreement  with  this  idea;  and  she  had  still  enough  re¬ 
maining  with  her  of  a  once  splendid  wardrobe  and  sets  of 
jewels  to  enable  her  to  personate  the  thing  to  advantage. 

She  stopped  in  the  outskirts  of  the  town,  where  she  had 
noticed  trunks  for  sale,  and  purchased  a  handsome  one. 
This  she  requested  the  man  to  send  along  with  her.  And, 
accordingly,  thus  escorted  by  a  boy  wheeling  her  trunk,  and 
Emmeline  behind  her,  carrying  her  carpet-bag  and  sundry 
bundles,  she  made  her  appearance  at  the  small  tavern  like  a 
lady  of  consideration. 

The  first  person  that  struck  her,  after  her  arrival,  was 
George  Shelby,  who  was  staying  there  awaiting  the  next 
boat. 

Gassy  had  remarked  the  young  man  from  her  loop-hole 
in  the  garret,  and  seen  him  bear  away  the  body  of  Tom,  and 
observed,  with  secret  exultation,  his  rencounter  with  Legree. 
Subsequently  she  had  gathered,  from  the  conversations 
she  had  overheard  among  the  negroes  as  she  glided  about  in 
her  ghostly  disguises  after  nightfall,  who  he  was  and  in 
what  relation  he  stood  to  Tom.  She,  therefore,  felt  an  im¬ 
mediate  accession  of  confidence  when  she  found  that  he 
was,  like  herself,  awaiting  the  next  boat. 

Gassy’s  air  and  manner,  address  and  evident  command 
of  money,  prevented  any  rising  disposition  to  suspicion  in 
the  hotel.  People  never  inquire  too  closely  into  those  who 
are  fair  on  the  main  point,  of  paying  well,— a  thing  which 
Gassy  had  foreseen  when  she  had  provided  herself  with 
money. 

In  the  edge  of  the  evening  a  boat  was  heard  coming  along, 
and  George  Shelby  handed  Cassy  aboard  with  the  politeness 
which  comes  natural  to  every  Kentuckian,  and  exerted  him¬ 
self  to  provide  her  with  a  good  stateroom. 

Cassy  kept  her  room  and  bed,  on  pretext  of  illness,  during 
the  whole  time  they  were  on  Red  River;  and  was  waited  on 
with  obsequious  devotion  by  her  attendant. 

When  they  arrived  at  the  Mississippi  River,  George,  hav¬ 
ing  learned  that  the  course  of  the  strange  lady  was  upward, 
like  his  own,  proposed  to  take  a  stateroom  for  her  on  the 
same  boat  with  himself, — good-naturedly  compass l-u?  a. ting. 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY.  4tf- 

her  feeble  healthy  and  desirious  to  do  what  be  could  to 
assist  her. 

Behold,  therefore,  the  whole  party  safely  transferred  to 
the  good  steamer  Cincinnati ,  and  sweeping  up  the  river 
under  a  powerful  head  of  steam. 

Cassy’s  health  was  much  better.  She  sat  upon  the  guards, 
came  to  the  table,  and  was  remarked  upon  in  the  boat  as  a 
lady  that  must  have  been  very  handsome. 

From  the  moment  that  George  got  the  first  glimpse  of 
her  face  he  was  troubled  with  one  of  those  fleeting  and  in¬ 
definite  likenesses  which  almost  everybody  can  remember, 
and  has  been,  at  times,  perplexed  with.  He  could  not  keep 
himself  from  looking  at  her  and  watching  her  perpetually. 
At  table,  or  sitting  at  her  stateroom  door,  still  she  would 
encounter  the  young  man’s  eyes  fixed  on  her,  and  politely 
withdrawn  when  she  showed  by  her  countenance  that  she  was 
sensible  of  the  observation. 

Cassy  became  uneasy.  She  began  to  think  that  he  sus¬ 
pected  something:  and  finally  resolved  to  throw  herself  en¬ 
tirely  on  his  generosity,  and  intrusted  him  with  her  whole 
history. 

George  was  heartily  disposed  to  sympathize  with  anyone 
who  had  escaped  from  Legree’s  plantation, — -a  place  that 
he  could  not  remember  or  speak  of  with  patience,— and, 
with  the  courageous  disregard  of  consequences  which  is 
characteristic  of  his  age  and  state,  he  assured  her  that  he 
would  do  all  in  his  power  to  protect  and  bring  them  through. 

The  next  stateroom  to  Cassy’s  was  occupied  by  a  French 
lady  named  De  Thoux,  who  was  accompanied  by  a  fine  little 
daughter,  a  child  of  some  twelve  summers. 

This  lady,  having  gathered  from  George’s  conversation 
that  he  was  from  Kentucky,  seemed  evidently  disposed  to 
cultivate  his  acquaintance;  in  which  design  she  was  seconded 
by  the  graces  of  her  little  girl,  who  was  about  as  pretty  a 
plaything  as  ever  diverted  the  weariness  of  a  fortnight’s  trip 
on  a  steamboat. 

George’s  chair  was  often  placed  at  her  stateroom  door; 
and  Cassy,  as  she  sat  upon  the  guards,  could  hear  their  con¬ 
versation. 

Mme.  de  Thoux  was  very  minute  in  her  inquiries  as  to 
Kentucky,  where  she  said  she  had  resided  in  a  former  period 
of  her  life.  George  discovered,  to  his  surprise,  that  her 
former  residence  must  have  been  in  his  own  vicinity;  and 


430 


UNCLE  tom’s  cabin;  OB, 

her  inquiries  showed  a  knowledge  of  people  and  things  in 
his  region  that  was  perfectly  surprising  id  him. 

“  Do  you  know/’  said  Mme.  de  Thoux  to  him  one  day* 
“  of  any  man  in  your  neighborhood  of  the  name  of  Harris?  ” 

“  There  is  an  old  fellow  of  that  name  lives  not  far  from 
my  father’s  place*”  said  George.  “  We  never  have  had  much 
intercourse  with  him,  though.” 

“  He  is  a  large  slave-holder,  I  believe,”  said  Mme.  de 
Thoux,  with  a  manner  which  seemed  to  betray  more  interest 
than  she  was  exactly  willing  to  show. 

“  He  is,”  said  George,  looking  rather  surprised  at  her 
manner. 

“  Did  you  ever  know  of  his  having— perhaps  you  may 
have  heard  of  his  having  a  mulatto  boy  named  George?  ” 

“  Oh,  certainly, — George  Harris, — I  know  him  well;  he 
married  a  servant  of  my  mother’s,  but  has  escaped,  now,  to 
Canada.” 

“  He  has?  ”  said  Mme.  de  Thoux  quickly.  “  Thank  God!  ” 

George  looked  a  surprised  inquiry,  but  said  nothing. 

Mme.  de  Thoux  leaned  her  head  on  her  hands  and  burst 
into  tears. 

“  He  is  my  brother,”  she  said. 

“  Madame!  ”  said  George,  with  a  strong  accent  of  surprise. 

“  Yes,”  said  Mme.  de  Thoux,  lifting  her  head  proudly  and 
wiping  her  tears;  “  Mr.  Shelby,  George  Harris  is  my 
brother!  ” 

44 1  am  perfectly  astonished,”  said  George,  pushing  back 
his  chair  a  pace  or  two  and  looking  at  Mme.  de  Thoux. 

44 1  was  sold  to  the  South  when  he  was  a  boy,”  said  she. 
44 1  was  bought  by  a  good  and  generous  man.  He  took  me 
with  him  to  the  West  Indies,  set  me  free,  and  married  me. 
It  is  but  lately  that  he  died;  and  I  was  coming  up  to  Ken¬ 
tucky  to  see  if  I  could  find  and  redeem  my  brother.” 

44 1  have  heard  him  speak  of  a  sister  Emily  that  was  sold 
South,”  said  George. 

44  Yes,  indeed!  I  rm  the  one,”  said  Mme.  de  Thoux;  "tell 
me  what  sort  of  a — — ” 

“  A  very  fine  young  man,”  said  George,  “  notwithstanding 
the  curse  of  slavery  that  lay  on  him.  He  sustained  a  first- 
rate  character,  both  for  intelligence  and  principle.  I  know, 
you  see,”  he  said,  "  because  he  married  in  our  family.” 

-  “  What  sort  of  a  girl?  ”  said  Mme.  de  Thoux  eagerly. 

"  A  treasure,”  said  George;  “  a  beautiful  intelligent, 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY. 


481 


amiable  girl.  Very  pious.  My  mother  had  brought  her  up 
and  trained  her  as  carefully,  almost,  as  a  daughter.  She 
could  read  and  write,  embroider  and  sew  beautifully;  and 
was  a  beautiful  singer.” 

“  Was  she  born  in  your  house?  ”  said  Mme.  de  Thoux. 

“  No.  Father  bought  her  once,  in  one  of  his  trips  to  New 
Orleans,  and  brought  her  up  as  a  present  to  mother.  She 
was  about  eight  or  nine  years  old  then.  Father  would  never 
tell  mother  what  he  gave  for  her;  but  the  other  day,  in  look¬ 
ing  over  his  old  papers,  we  came  across  the  bill  of  sale.  He 
paid  an  extravagant  sum  for  her,  to  be  sure.  I  suppose  on 
account  of  her  extraordinary  beauty.” 

George  sat  with  his  back  to  Gassy  and  did  not  see  the  ab¬ 
sorbed  expression  of  her  countenance  as  he  was  giving  these 
details. 

At  this  point  in  the  story  she  touched  his  arm  and,  with  a 
face  perfectly  white  with  interest,  said,  “  Do  you  know  the 
names  of  the  people  he  bought  her  of?  ” 

“  A  man  of  the  name  of  Simmons,  I  think,  was  the  prin¬ 
cipal  in  the  transaction.  At  least,  I  think  that  was  the  name 
on  the  bill  of  sale.” 

“  Oh,  my  God!  ”  said  Gassy,  and  fell  insensible  on  the 
floor  of  the  cabin. 

George  was  wide  awake  now,  and  was  so  Mme.  de  Thoux. 
Though  neither  of  them  could  conjecture  what  was  the 
cause  of  Gassy’s  fainting,  still  they  made  all  the  tumult 
which  is  proper  in  such  cases;  George  upsetting  a  wash- 
pitcher  and  breaking  two  tumblers  in  the  warmth  of  his 
humanity  ;  and  various  ladies  in  the  cabin,  hearing  that  some¬ 
body  had  .fainted,  crowded  the  stateroom  door  and  kept  out 
all  the  air  they  possibly  could,  so  that,  on  the  whole*  every¬ 
thing  was  done  that  could  be  expected. 

Poor  Gassy,  when  she  recovered,  turned  her  face  to  the 
wall,  and  wept  and  sobbed  like  a  child.  Perhaps,  mother, 
you  can  tell  what  she  was  thinking  of!  Perhaps  you  cannot 
■ — but  she  felt  as  sure,  in  that  hour,  that  God  had  had  mercy 
on  her  and  that  she  should  see  her  daughter, — us  she  did, 
months  afterward, — when — but  we  anticipate. 


UNCLE  tom’s  CABIN;  0Bj 


4m 


CHAPTER  XLIII 

RESULTS. 

The  rest  of  our  story  is  soon  told.  George  Shelby*  inter¬ 
ested*  as  any  other  young  man  might  be,  by  the  romance 
of  the  incident  no  less  than  by  feelings  of  humanity*  was  at 
the  pains  to  send  to  Cassy  the  bill  of  sale  of  Eliza*  whose 
date  and  name  all  corresponded  with  her  own  knowledge  of 
facts*  and  left  no  doubt  upon  her  mind  as  to  the  identity 
of  her  child.  It  remained  now  only  for  her  to  trace  out  the 
path  of  the  fugitives. 

Mine,  de  Thoux  and  she,  thus  drawn  together  by  the 
singular  coincidence  of  their  fortunes*  proceeded  immedi¬ 
ately  to  Canada  and  began  a  tour  of  inquiry  among  the  sta¬ 
tions  where  the  numerous  fugitives  from  slavery  were  loca¬ 
ted.  At  Amherstburg  they  found  the  missionary  with  whom 
George  and  Eliza  had  taken  shelter  on  their  first  arrival  in 
Canada;  and  through  him  were  enabled  to  trace  the  family  to 
Montreal. 

George  and  Eliza  had  now  been  five  years  free.  George 
had  found  constant  occupation  in  the  shop  of  a  worthy  ma¬ 
chinist*  where  he  had  been  earning  a  competent  support  for 
his  family*  which*  in  the  meantime*  had  been  increased  by 
the  addition  of  another  daughter. 

Little  Harry— a  fine*  bright  boy— had  been  put  to  a  good 
school  and  was  making  rapid  proficiency  in  knowledge. 

The  worthy  pastor  of  the  station  at  Amherstburg*  where 
George  had  first  landed*  was  so  much  interested  in  the  state¬ 
ments  of  Mme.  de  Thoux  and  Cassy  that  he  yielded  to  the 
solicitations  of  the  former  to  accompany  them  to  Montreal 
in  their  search* — she  bearing  all  the  expense  of  the  expe¬ 
dition. 

The  scene  now  changes  to  a  small,  neat  tenement,  in  the 
outskirts  of  Montreal;  the  time*  evening.  A  cheerful  fire 
blazes  on  the  hearth;  a  tea-table,  covered  with  a  snowy  cloth, 
stands  prepared  for  the  evening  meal.  In  one  corner  of  the 
room  was  a  table  covered  with  a  green  cloth*  where  was  an 
open  writing-desk*  pens,  paper,  and  over  it  a  shelf  of  well- 
selected  books. 

This  was  George’s  study.  The  same  zeal  for  self-improve- 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY.  4&S 

ment  which  led  him  to  steal  the  much-coveted  arts  of  read¬ 
ing  and  writing,  amid  all  the  toils  and  discouragements  of 
his  early  life,  still  led  him  to  devote  all  his  leisure  time  to 
self-cultivation. 

At  this  present  time  he  is  seated  at  the  tafcle,  making 
notes  from  a  volume  of  the  family  library  he  has  been 
reading. 

“  Come,  George,”  says  Eliza,  “  you?ve  been  gone  all  day. 
Do  put  down  that  book,  and  let’s  talk,  while  Pm  getting 
tea, — do.” 

And  little  Eliza  seconds  the  effort,  by  toddling  up  to  her 
father,  and  trying  to  pull  the  book  out  of  his  hand  and  in¬ 
stall  herself  on  his  knee  as  a  substitute. 

“  Oh,  you  little  witch!  ”  says  George,  yielding,  as  in  such 
circumstances  man  always  must. 

“  That’s'  right,”  says  Eliza,  as  she  begins  to  cut  a  loaf 
of  bread.  A  little  older  she  looks;  her  form  a  little  fuller; 
her  air  more  matronly  than  of  yore;  but  evidently  contented 
and  happy  as  woman  need  be. 

“  Harry,  my  bo}^,  how  did  you  come  on  in  that  sum  to¬ 
day?  ”  says  George,  as  he  laid  his  hand  on  his  son’s  head. 

Harry  has  lost  his  long  curls;  but  he  can  never  lose  those 
eyes  and  eyelashes,  and  that  fine,  bold  brow  that  flushes 
with  triumph  as  he  answers,  “  I  did  it,  every  bit  of  it,  myself , 
father;  and  nobody  helped  me!  ” 

“  That’s  right,”  says  his  father;  “  depend  on  yourself, 
my  son.  You  have  a  better  chance  than  ever  your  poor 
father  had.” 

At  this  moment  there  is  a  rap  at  the  door;  and  Eliza  goes 
and  opens  it.  The  delighted  “  Why! — this  you?”  calls  up 
her  husband;  and  the  good  pastor  of  Amherstburg  is  wel¬ 
comed.  There  are  two  women  with  him,  and  Eliza  asks  them 
to  sit  down. 

How,  if  the  truth  must  be  told,  the  honest  pastor  had  ar¬ 
ranged  a  little  programme,  according  to  which  this  affair 
was  to  develop  itself;  and  on  the  way  up  all  had  very 
cautiously  and  prudently  exhorted  each  other  not  to  let 
things  out,  except  according  to  previous  arrangement. 

What  was  the  good  man’s  consternation,  therefore,  just 
as  he  had  motioned  to  the  ladies  to  be  seated,  and  was  tak¬ 
ing  out  his  pocket  handkerchief  to  wipe  his  mouth,  so  as  to 
proceed  to  his  introductory  speech  in  good  order,  when 
Mine,  do  Thoux  upset  the  whole  plan  by  throwing  her  a  mm 


434  uncle  tom’s  cabin;  OB, 

around  George’s  neck*  and  letting  all  out  at  once  by  saying, 
“Oh,  George!  don’t  you  know  me?  I’m  your  sister  Emily.” 

Gassy  had  seated  herself  more  composedly,  and  would 
have  carried  on  her  part  very  well,  had  not  little  Eliza  sud¬ 
denly  appeared  before  her  in  exact  shape  and  form,  every 
outline  and  curl,  just  as  her  daughter  was  when  she  saw  her 
last.  The  little  thing  peered  up  in  her  face;  and  Cassy 
caught  her  up  in  her  arms,  pressed  her  to  her  bosom,  saying, 
what  at  the  moment  she  really  believed,  “  Darling,  I’m  your 
mother.” 

In  fact,  it  was  a  troublesome  matter  to  do  up  exactly  in 
proper  order;  but  the  good  pastor  at  last  succeeded  in  get¬ 
ting  everybody  quiet,  and  delivering  the  speech  with  which 
he  had  intended  to  open  the  exercises;  and  in  which  at  last 
he  succeeded  so  well  that  his  whole  audience  were  sobbing 
about  him  in  a  manner  that  ought  to  satisfy  any  orator, 
ancient  or  modern. 

They  knelt  together,  and  the  good  man  prayed,— for 
there  are  some  feelings  so  agitated  and  tumultuous  that  they 
can  find  rest  only  by  being  poured  into  the  bosom  of  Al¬ 
mighty  love, — and  then,  rising  up,  the  new-found  family 
embraced  each  other,  with  a  holy  trust  in  Him  who  from 
such  peril  and  dangers,  and  by  such  unknown  ways,  had 
brought  them  together. 

The  notebook  of  a  missionary  among  the  Canadian  fugi¬ 
tives  contains  truth  stranger  than  fiction.  How  can  it  be 
otherwise,  when  a  system  prevails  which  whirls  families  and 
scatters  their  members,  as  the  wind  whirls  and  scatters  the 
leaves  of  autumn?  These  shores  of  refuge,  like  the  eternal 
shore,  often  unite  again  in  glad  communion  hearts  that  for 
long  years  have  mourned  each  other  as  lost.  And  affecting 
beyond  expression  is  the  earnestness  with  which  every  new 
arrival  among  them  is  met,  if  perchance  it  may  bring  tid¬ 
ings  of  mother,  sister,  child,  or  wife,  still  lost  to  view  in  the 
shadow  of  slavery. 

Deeds  of  heroism  are  wrought  here  more  than  those  of 
romance,  when,  defying  torture  and  braving  death  itself, 
the  fugitive  voluntarily  threads  his  way  back  to  the  terrors 
and  perils  of  that  dark  land,  that  he  may  bring  out  his  sister, 
or  mother,  or  wife. 

One  young  man,  of  whom  a  missionary  has  told  us,  twice 
recaptured,  and  suffering  shameful  stripes  for  his  heroism, 
had  escsnad  again;  and,  in  the  letter  which  we  he* -A  read. 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY9 


485 


tells  his  friends  that  he  is  going  back  a  third  time,  that  he 
may,  at  last,  bring  away  his  sister.  My  good  sir,  is  this  man 
a  hero,  or  a  criminal?  Would  not  you  do  as  much  for  your 
sister?  And  can  you  blame  him? 

But,  to  return  to  our  friends,  whom  we  left  wiping  their 
eyes,  and  recovering  themselves  from  too  great  and  sudden 
a  joy.  They  are  now  seated  around  the  social  board,  and  are 
getting  decidedly  companionable;  only  that  Gassy,  who 
keeps  little  Eliza  on  her  lap,  occasionally  squeezes  the  little 
thing  in  a  manner  that  rather  astonishes  her,  and  obstinately 
refuses  to  have  her  mouth  stuffed  with  cake  to  the  extent 
the  little  one  desires, — alleging,  what  the  child  rather  won¬ 
ders  at,  that  she  has  got  something  better  than  cake,  and 
doesn’t  want  it. 

And,  indeed,  in  two  or  three  days  such  a  change  has 
passed  over  Gassy  that  our  readers  would  scarcely  know  her. 
The  despairing,  haggard  expression  of  her  face  has  given 
way  to  one  of  gentle  trust.  She  seemed  to  sink,  at  once, 
into  the  bosom  of  the  family,  and  take  the  little  ones  into 
her  heart,  as  something  for  which  it  long  had  waited.  In¬ 
deed,  her  love  seemed  to  flow  more  naturally  to  the  little 
Eliza  than  to  her  own  daughter;  for  she  was  the  exact  image 
and  body  of  the  child  whom  she  had  lost.  The  little  one 
was  a  flowery  bond  between  mother  and  daughter,  through 
whom  grew  up  acquaintanceship  and  affection.  Eliza’s 
steady,  consistent  piety,  regulated  by  the  constant  reading 
of  the  Sacred  Word,  made  her  a  proper  guide  for  the  shat¬ 
tered  and  wearied  mind  of  her  mother.  Gassy  yielded  at 
once,  and  with  her  whole  soul,  to  every  good  influence,  and 
became  a  devout  and  tender  Christian. 

After  a  day  or  two  Mme.  de  Thoux  told  her  brother  more 
particularly  of  her  affairs.  The  death  of  her  husband  had  left 
her  an  ample  fortune,  which  she  generously  offered  to  share 
with  the  family.  When  she  asked  George  what  way  she  could 
best  apply  it  for  him,  he  answered,  “  Give  me  an  education, 
Emily;  that  has  always  been  my  heart’s  desire.  Then,  I  can 
do  all  the  rest.” 

On  mature  deliberation  it  was  decided  that  the  whole 
family  should  go,  for  some  years,  to  France;  whither  they 
sailed,  carrying  Emmeline  with  them. 

The  good  looks  of  the  latter  won  the  affection  of  the  first 
mate  of  the  vessel;  and,  shortly  after  entering  the  nort,  she 
became  his  wife. 


m 


uncle  tom:7s  cabin;  on, 


George  remained  four  years  at  a  French  university,  sad, 
applying  himself  with  an  unintermitted  zeal,  obtained  a 
Very  thorough  education. 

Political  troubles  in  France  at  last  led  the  family  again 
to  seek  an  asylum  in  this  country. 

George’s  feelings  and  views,  as  an  educated  man,  may  be 
best  expressed  in  a  letter  to  one  of  his  friends: 

44 1  feel  somewhat  at  a  loss  as  to  my  future  course.  True,  as  you 
have  said  to  me,  I  might  mingle  in  the  circles  of  the  whites,  in  this 
country,  my  shade  of  color  is  so  slight,  and  that  of  my  wife  and  family 
scarce  perceptible.  Well,  perhaps,  on  sufferance,  1  might.  But,  to  tell 
you  the  truth,  I  have  no  wish  to. 

44  My  sympathies  are  not  for  my  father’s  race,  but  for  my  mother’s. 
To  him  I  was  no  more  than  aline  dog  or  horse  ;  to  my  poor  heart-broken 
m  tiier  I  was  a  child ;  and,  though  I  never  saw  her,  after  the  cruel  r«.]e 
that  separated  us,  till  she  died,  yet  I  know  she  always  loved  me  dearly. 
I  know  it  by  my  own  heart.  When  I  think  of  all  she  suffered,  of  my 
own  early  sufferings,  of  the  distresses  and  struggles  of  my  heroic  wife,  of 
my  sister,  sold  in  the  New  Orleans  slave-market, —though  I  hope  to 
have  no  unchristian  sentiments,  yet  I  may  be  excused  for  saying,  I  have 
no  wish  to  pass  for  an  American,  or  to  identify  myself  with  them. 

“  It  is  with  the  oppressed,  enslaved  African  race  that  I  cast  in  my  lot : 
and,  if  I  wished  anything,  I  would  wish  myself  two  shades  darker, 
rather  than  one  lighter. 

44  The  desire  and  yearning  of  my  soul  is  for  an  African  nationality.  I 
want  a  people  that  shall  have  a  tangible,  separate  existence  of  its  own  : 
and  where  am  I  to  look  for  it  ?  Not  in  Hayti ;  for  in  Hayti  they  had 
nothing  to  start  with.  A  stream  cannot  rise  above  its  fountain.  The 
race  that  formed  the  character  of  the  Haytiens  was  a  worn-out,  effemi¬ 
nate  one  ;  and,  of  course,  the  subject  race  will  be  centuries  in  rising  to 
anything. 

“  Where,  then,  shall  I  look  ?  On  the  shores  of  Africa  I  see  a  repub¬ 
lic,— a  republic  formed  of  picked  men,  who,  by  energy  and  self-educa¬ 
ting  force,  have,  in  many  cases,  individually,  raised  themselves  above  a 
condition  of  slavery.  Having  gone  through  a  preparatory  stage  of 
feebleness,  this  republic  has,  at  last,  become  an  acknowledged  nation  on 
the  face  of  the  earth, —acknowledged  by  both  Trance  and  England. 
There  it  is  my  wish  to  go,  and  fmu  myself  a  people. 

41 1  am  aware,  now,  that  I  shall  have  you  all  against  me  ;  but,  before 
you  strike,  hear  me.  During  my  stay  in  France  I  have  followed  up, 
with  intense  interest,  the  history  of  my  people  in  America.  I  have  noted 
the  struggle  between  abolitionist  and  colonizationist,  and  have  received 
some  impressions,  as  a  distant  spectator,  which  could  never  have  occurred 
to  me  as  a  participator. 

44 1  grant  that  tills  Liberia  may  have  subserved  all  sorts  of  purposes, 
by  being  played  off,  in  the  hands  of  our  oppressors,  against  us.  Doubt¬ 
less  the  scheme  may  have  been  used,  in  unjustifiable  ways,  as  a  means 
of  retarding  our  emancipation.  But  the  question  to  me  is,  Is  there  not 
a  God  above  all  man’s  schemes  ?  May  He  not  have  overruled  their 
designs,  and  founded  for  us  a  nation  by  them  ? 

4*  In  these  days  a  nation  is  born  in  a  day.  A  nation  starts,  now,  with 
ail  the  great  problems  of  republican  life  and  civilization  wiovght  out  &Q 


Lli^a  AMOjS'vr  THE  LOWLY. 


437 


its  band  : — it  lias  not  to  discover,  but  only  to  apply.  Let  us,  then,  all 
take  hold  together,  with  all  our  might,  and  see  what  we  can  do  with 
this  new  enterprise,  and  the  whole  splendid  continent  of  Africa  opens 
before  us  and  uur  children.  Oar  nation  shall  roll  the  tide  of  civiliza¬ 
tion  and  Christianity  along  its  shores,  and  plant  there  mighty  republics, 
that,  growing  with  the  rapidity  of  tropical  vegetation,  shall  be  for  all 
coming  ages. 

“  Do  you  say  that  I  am  deserting  my  enslaved  brethren  ?  I  think  not. 
If  I  forget  them  one  hour,  one  moment  of  my  life,  so  may  God  forget 
me  !  But,  what  can  I  do  for  them  here  ?  Can  I  break  their  chains  ? 
No,  not  as  an  individual ;  but,  let  me  go  and  iorm  part  of  a  nation, 
which  shall  have  a  voice  in  the  councils  of  nations,  and  then  we  can 
speak.  A  nation  has  a  right  to  argue,  remonstrate,  implore,  and  present 
the  cause  of  its  race, — which  an  individual  has  not. 

4i  If  Europe  ever  becomes  a  grand  council  of  free  nations, — as  I  trust 
in  God  it  will,— if,  there,  serfdom,  and  all  unjust  and  oppressive  social 
inequalities,  are  done  away  ;  and  if  they,  as  France  and  England  have 
done,  acknowledge  our  position, — then,  in  the  great  congress  of  nations 
we  will  make  our  appeal,  and  present  the  cause  of  our  enslaved  and 
suffering  race ;  and  it  cannot  be  that  free,  enlightened  America  will 
not  then  desire  to  wipe  from  her  escutcheon  that  bar  sinister  which 
disgraces  her  among  nations,  and  is  as  truly  a  curse  to  her  as  to  the 
enslaved. 

“  But,  you  will  tell  me,  our  race  have  equal  rights  to  mingle  in  the 
American  republic  as  the  Irishman,  the  German,  and  the  Swede. 
Granted,  they  have.  We  ought  to  be  free  to  meet  and  mingle, — to  rise 
by  our  individual  worth,  without  any  consideration  of  caste  or  color  ; 
and  they  who  deny  us  this  right  are  false  to  their  own  professed  princi¬ 
ples  of  human  equality.  We  ought,  in  particular,  to  be  allowed  here. 
We  have  more  than  the  rights  of  common  men  ; — we  have  the  claim  of 
an  injured  race  for  reparation.  But,  then,  I  do  not  want  it ;  I  want  a 
country,  a  nation,  of  my  own,  I  think  that  the  African  race  has 
peculiarities,  yet  to  be  unfolded  in  the  light  of  civilization  and  Christi¬ 
anity,  which,  if  not  the  same  with  those  of  the  Anglo-Saxon,  may  prove 
to  be.  morally,  of  even  a  higher  type. 

“  To  the  Anglo-Saxon  race  have  been  intrusted  the  destinies  of  the 
world,  during  its  pioneer  period  of  struggle  and  conflict.  To  that 
mission  its  stern,  inflexible,  energetic  elements  were  well  adapted  ;  but 
as  a  Christian,  I  look  for  another  era  to  arise.  On  its  borders  I  trust 
we  stand  :  and  the  throes  that  now  convulse  the  nations  are,  to  my 
hope,  but  the  birth-pangs  of  an  hour  of  universal  peace  and  brother¬ 
hood. 

“I  trust  that  the  development  of  Africa  is  to  be  essentially  a  Christian 
one.  If  not  a  dominant  and  commanding  race,  they  are,  at  least,  an 
affectionate,  magnanimous,  and  forgiving  one.  Having  been  called  in 
the  furnace  of  injustice  and  oppression,  they  have  need  to  bind  closer  to 
their  hearts  that  sublime  doctrine  of  love  and  forgiveness,  through 
which  alone  they  are  to  conquer,  which  it  is  to  be  their  mission  to  spread 
over  the  continent  of  Africa. 

“  In  myself,  I  confess,  I  am  feeble  for  this,— full  half  the  blood  in  my 
veins  is  the  hot  and  hasty  Saxon  ;  but  I  have  an  eloquent  preacher  of 
the  gospel  ever  by  my  side,  in  the  person  of  my  beautiful  wife.  When 
I  wander,  her  gentler  spirit  ever  restores  me,  and  keeps  before  my  eyes 
the  Christian  calling  and  mission  of  our  race.  As  a  Christian  patriot* 


438 


uncle  tom’s  cabin  ;  OR, 

as  a  teacher  of  Christianity,  I  go  to  my  country  * — my  chosen,  ray  glorious 
Africa ! — and  to  her,  in  my  heart,  I  sometimes  apply  those  splendid 
welds  of  prophecy,  ‘  Whereas  thou  hast  been  forsaken  and  hated,  so 
that  no  man  went  through  thee  ;  I  will  make  thee  an  eternal  excel¬ 
lence.  a  joy  of  many  generations  !  * 

“  You  will  call  me  an  enthusiast  :  you  will  tell  me  that  I  have  not 
well  considered  what  1  am  undertaking.  But  I  have  considered  and 
counted  the  cost.  I  gc  to  Liberia ,  not  as  to  an  E’ysium  of  romance,  but 
as  to  a  field  of  work.  I  expect  to  work  with  both  hands,  to  work  hard  ; 
to  work  against  all  sorts  of  difficulties  and  discouragements ;  and  to  work 
till  I  die.  This  is  what  I  go  for,  and  in  lids  I  am  quite  sure  .1  shail  no« 
be  disappointed 

“  Whatever  you  may  think  of  my  determination,  do  not  divorce  me 
firom  your  confidence  ;  and  think  that,  in  whatever  I  do,  I  act  with  a 
heart  wholly  given  to  my  people. 

44  George  Harris/5 

George,  with  his  wife,  children,  sister,  and  mother,  em¬ 
barked  for  Africa  some  few  weeks  after.  If  we  are  not 
mistaken,  the  world  will  yet  hear  from  him  there. 

Of  our  other  characters  we  have  nothing  very  particular 
to  write,  except  a  word  relating  to  Miss  Ophelia  and  Topsy, 
and  a  farewell  chapter  which  we  shall  dedicate  to  George 
Shelby. 

Miss  Ophelia  took  Topsy  home  to  Vermont  with  her, 
much  to  the  surprise  of  that  grave,  deliberate  body  whom  a 
New-Englander  recognizes  under  the  term  “  our  folks  ” 
“  Our  folks  ”  at  first  thought  it  an  odd  and  unnecessary 
addition  to  their  well-trained  domestic  establishment;  but, 
so  thoroughly  efficient  was  Miss  Ophelia  in  her  conscientious 
endeavor  to  do  her  duty  by  her  eleve ,  that  the  child  rapidly 
grew  in  grace  and  in  favor  with  the  family  and  neighbor¬ 
hood.  At  the  age  of  womanhood  she  was,  by  her  own  re¬ 
quest,  baptised,  and  became  a  member  of  the  Christian 
church  in  the  place;  and  showed  so  much  intelligence, 
activity,  and  zeal,  and  desire  to  do  good  in  the  world,  that 
she  was  at  last  recommended,  and  approved,  as  a  missionary 
to  one  of  the  stations  in  Africa;  and  we  have  heard  that 
the  same  activity  and  ingenuity  which,  when  a  child,  made 
her  so  multiform  and  restless  in  her  developments,  is  now 
employed,  in  a  safer  and  wholesomer  manner,  in  teaching 
the  children  of  her  own  country. 

P.  S.— It  will  be  a  satisfaction  to  some  mother,  also,  to 
state,  that  some  inquiries,  which  were  set  on  foot  hv  Mme 
de  Thoux,  have  resulted  recently  in  the  discovery  of  Gassy’s 


439 


LiFK  AMONG  THE  LOWLY. 

son.  Being  a  ydung  man  of  energy,  he  had  escaped,  some 
years  before  his  mother,  and  been  received  and  educated 
by  friends  of  the  oppressed  in  the  North.  He  will  soon 
follow  his  family  to  Africa. 


CHAPTER  XLXV, 

THE  LIBERATOR 

George  Shelby  had  written  to  his  mother  merely  a  line, 
stating  the  day  that  she  might  expect  him  home.  Of  the 
death  scene  of  his  old  friend  he  had  not  the  heart  to  write. 
He  had  tried  several  times,  and  only  succeeded  in  half  chok¬ 
ing  himself;  and  invariably  finished  by  tearing  up  the  paper, 
wiping  his  eyes,  and  rushing  somewhere  to  get  quiet. 

There  was  a  pleased  bustle  all  through  the  Shelby  mansion 
that  day,  in  expectation  of  the  arrival  of  young  Mas’r 
George. 

Mrs.  Shelby  was  seated  in  her  comfortable  parlor,  where 
a  cheerful  hickory  fire  was  dispelling  the  chill  of  the  late 
autumn  evening.  A  supper  table,  glittering  with  plate  and 
cut  glass,  was  set  out,  on  whose  arrangements  our  former 
friend  old  Chloe  was  presiding. 

Arrayed  in  a  new  calico  dress,  with  clean,  white  apron, 
and  high,  well-starched  turban,  her  black  polished  face 
glowing  with  satisfaction,  she  lingered,  with  needless  punc¬ 
tiliousness,  around  the  arrangements  of  the  table,  merely  as 
an  excuse  for  talking  a  little  to  her  mistress. 

“  Laws,  now!  won’t  it  look  natural  to  him?  ”  she  said. 
“  Thar, — Fs  set  his  plate  just  whar  he  likes  it, — round  by 
the  fire.  MasT  George  allers  wants  de  warm  seat.  Oh,  go 
away! — why  didn’t  Sally  get  out  de  best  teapot, — de  little 
new  one,  Mas’r  George  got  for  missis,  Christmas?  I’ll  have 
it  out!  And  missis  has  heard  from  Mas’r  George?  ”  she  said 
inquiringly. 

“  Yes,  Chloe;  but  only  a  line,  just  to  say  he  would  be  home 
to-night,  if  he  could, — that’s  all.” 

“  Didn’t  say  nothin’  ’bout  my  old  man,  s’pose?  ”  said 
Chloe,  still  fidgeting  with  the  teacups. 

“  No,  he  didn’t.  He  did  not  speak  of  anything,  Chloe. 
He  said  he  would  tell  all  when  he  got  home.” 

“  Jes  like  Mas’r  George, — he’s  allers  so  ferce  for  fellin’ 


440 


UNCLE  tom’s  cabin;  OB, 

everything  his  self.  I  allers  minded  that  ar  in  Mas’r  George. 
Don’t  see,  for  my  part,  how  white  people  gen’lly  can  bar  to 
hev  to  write  things  much  as  they  do,  writin’  ’s  such  slow, 
oneasy  kind  o’  work.” 

Mrs.  Shelby  smiled. 

“  I’m  a-thinkin’  my  old  man  won’t  know  de  boys  an’  de 
baby.  Lor!  she’s  de  biggest  gal,  now, — -good  she  is,  too,  and 
peart,  Polly  is.  She’s  out  to  the  house,  now,  watchin’  de 
hoe-cake.  I’s  got  jist  de  very  pattern  my  old  man  liked  so 
much,  a-bakin’.  Jist  sich  as  I  gin  him  the  mornin’  he  was 
took  off.  Lord  bless  us!  how  I  felt  dat  ar  morning!  ” 

Mrs.  Shelby  sighed,  and  felt  a  heavy  weight  on  her  heart, 
at  this  allusion.  She  had  felt  uneasy,  ever  since  she  received 
her  son’s  letter,  lest  something  should  prove  to  be  hidden 
behind  the  veil  of  silence  which  he  had  drawn. 

“  Missis  has  got  dem  bills?  ”  said  Chloe  anxiously. 

“  Yes,  Chloe.” 

“  ’Cause  I  want  to  show  my  old  man  dem  very  bills  de 
perfectioner  gave  me.  ‘  And,’  says  he,  6  Chloe,  I  wish  you’d 
stay  longer.’  c  Thank  you,  mas’r,’  says  I,  ‘  I  would,  only  my 
old  man’s  coming  home,  and  missis,— she  can’t  do  without 
me  no  longer.’  There’s  jist  what  I  telled  him.  Bery  nice 
man,  dat  Mas’r  Jones  was.” 

Chloe  had  pertinaciously  insisted  that  the  very  bills  in 
which  her  wages  had  been  paid  should  be  preserved,  to  show 
to  her  husband,  in  memorial  of  her  capability.  And  Mrs. 
Shelby  readily  consented  to  humor  the  faithful  servant  in 

her  request. 

“He  won’t  know  Polly, — my  old  man  won’t.  Laws,  it’s  five 
years  since  they  tuck  him!  She  was  a  baby  den, — couldn’t 
but  jist  stand.  Remember  how  tickled  he  used  to  be,  ’cause 
she  would  keep  a-fallin’  over,  when  she  sot  out  to  walk. 
Laws  a-me!  ” 

The  rattling  of  wheels  now  was  heard. 

“Mas’r  George!”  said  Aunt  Chloe,  starting  to  the 
window. 

Mrs.  Shelby  ran  to  the  entry  door,  and  was  folded  in  the 
arms  of  her  son.  Aunt  Chloe  stood  anxiously  straining  her 
eyes  out  into  the  darkness. 

“  Oh,  poor  Aunt  Chloe  !”  said  George,  stopping  compas¬ 
sionately,  and  taking  her  hard,  black  hand  between  both  his; 
“I’d  have  given  all  my  fortune  to  have  brought  him  with 
me,  but  he’s  gone  to  a  better  country.” 


LIFE  AMOjMO  THE  LOW.  441 

There  was  a  passionate  exclamation  from  Mrs.  Shelby, 
but  Aunt  Chloe  said  nothing. 

The  party  entered  the  supper  room.  The  money,  of  which 
Chloe  was  so  proud,  was  still  lying  on  the  table. 

“  Thar,”  said  she,  gathering  it  up  and  holding  it  with  a 
trembling  hand  to  her  mistress,  “  don't  never  want  to  see 
nor  hear  on’t  again.  Jist  as  I  knew  ’twould  be, -  -sold,  and 
murdered  on  dem  ar  old  plantations!  ” 

Chloe  turned,  and  was  walking  proudly  out  of  the  room. 
Mrs.  Shelby  followed  her  softly,  and  took  one  of  her  hands, 
drew  her  down  into  a  chair,  and  sat  down  by  her. 

“  My  poor,  good  Chloe!  ”  said  she. 

Chloe  leaned  her  head  on  her  mistress*  shoulder,  and 
sobbed  out,  “  Oh,  missis!  ’scuse  me,  my  heart’s  broke, — dat’s 
all!” 

“  I  know  it  is,”  said  Mrs.  Shelby,  as  her  tears  fell  fast; 
“  and  I  cannot  heal  it,  but  Jesus  can.  He  healeth  the 
broken-hearted,  and  bindeth  up  their  wounds.” 

There  was  a  silence  for  a  time,  and  all  wept  together. 
At  last  George,  sitting  down  beside  the  mourner,  took  her 
hand,  and,  with  simple  pathos,  repeated  the  triumphant 
scene  of  her  husband’s  death,  and  his  last  messages  of  love. 

About  a  month  after  this,  one  morning,  all  the  servants 
of  the  Shelby  estate  were  convened  together  in  the  great 
hall  that  ran  through  the  house,  to  hear  a  few  words  from 
their  young  master. 

To  the  surprise  of  all,  he  appeared  among  them  with  a 
bundle  of  papers  in  his  hand,  containing  a  certificate  of  free¬ 
dom  to  everyone  on  the  place,  which  he  read  successively, 
and  presented,  amid  the  sobs  and  tears  and  shouts  of  all 
present. 

Many,  however,  pressed  around  him,  earnestly  begging 
him  not  to  send  them  away;  and,  with  anxious  faces,  tender¬ 
ing  back  their  free  papers. 

“  We  don’t  want  to  be  no  freer  than  we  are.  We’s  aliers 
had  all  we  wanted.  We  don’t  want  to  leave  de  ole  place, 
and  mas’r  and  missis,  and  de  rest!  ” 

“  My  good  friends,”  said  George,  as  soon  as  he  could  get 
a  silence,  “  there  ’ll  be  no  need  for  you  to  leave  me.  The 
place  wants  as  many  hands  to  work  it  as  it  did  before.  We 
need  the  same  about  the  house  that  we  did  before.  But, 
you  are  now  free  men  and  women.  I  shall  pay  you  wages  for 
four  work,  such  as  we  shall  agree  on.  The  advantage  is* 


442 


UNCLE  tom’s  cabin;  or, 

that  in  case  of  mj  getting  in  debt,  or  dying, — things  that 
might  happen,— yon  cannot  now  be  taken  np  and  sold.  I 
expect  to  carry  on  the  estate,  and  to  teach  you  v/hat,  per¬ 
haps,  it  will  take  you  some  time  to  learn, — how  to  use  the 
rights  I  give  you  as  free  men  and  women.  I  expect  you  to 
be  good  and  willing  to  learn;  and  I  trust  in  God  that  I  shall 
be  faithful  and  willing  to  teach.  And  now,  my  friends,  look 
up,  and  thank  God  for  the  blessing  of  freedom." 

An  aged,  patriarchal  negro,  who  had  grown  gray  and  blind 
on  the  estate,  now  rose,  and  lifting  his  trembling  hand,  said, 
“  Let  us  give  thanks  unto  the  Lord!  "  As  all  kneeled  by  one 
consent  a  more  touching  and  hearty  Te  Deum  never 
ascended  to  heaven,  though  borne  on  the  peal  of  organ,  bell, 
and  cannon,  than  came  from  that  honest  old  heart. 

On  rising,  another  struck  up  a  Methodist  hymn,  of  which 
the  burden  was: 

,f  The  year  of  Jubilee  is  come, 

Return,  ye  ransomed  sinners,  home.” 

“  One  thing  more,"  said  George,  as  he  stopped  the  con¬ 
gratulations  of  the  throng;  “  you  all  remember  our  good  old 
Uncle  Tom?" 

George  here  gave  a  short  narration  of  the  scene  of  his 
death,  and  of  his  loving  farewell  to  all  on  the  place,  and 
added: 

“  It  was  on  his  grave,  my  friends,  that  I  resolved  before 
God  that  I  would  never  own  another  slave,  while  it  was  pos¬ 
sible  to  free  him;  that  nobody,  through  me,  should  ever  run 
the  risk  of  being  parted  from  home  and  friends,  and  dying 
on  a  lonely  plantation,  as  he  died.  So,  when  you  rejoice  in 
your  freedom,  think  that  you  owe  it  to  that  good  old  soul, 
and  pay  it  back  in  kindness  to  his  wife  and  children.  Think 
of  your  freedom,  every  time  you  see  Uncle  Tom’s  Cabin; 
and  let  it  be  a  memorial  to  put  you  all  in  mind  to  follow  in 
his  steps,  and  be  as  honest  and  faithful  and  Christian  as  he 
was." 


Um  AMONG  THE  LOW £&>  4U 

CHAPTER  XLV. 

CONCLUDING  BEMAEKS. 

The  writer  has  often  been  inquired  of  by  correspondents 
from  different  parts  of  the  country  whether  this  narrative 
is  a  true  one;  and  to  these  inquiries  she  will  give  one  general 
answer. 

The  separate  incidents  that  compose  the  narrative  are,  to 
a  very  great  extent,  authentic,  occurring,  many  of  them, 
either  under  her  own  observation,  or  that  of  her  personal 
friends.  She  or  her  friends  have  observed  characters  the 
counterpart  of  almost  all  that  are  here  introduced;  and  many 
of  the  sayings  are  word  for  word  as  heard  by  herself,  or  re¬ 
ported  to  her. 

The  personal  appearance  of  Eliza,  the  character  ascribed 
to  her,  are  sketches  drawn  from  life.  The  incorruptible 
fidelity,  piety,  and  honesty  of  Uncle  Tom  had  more  than  one 
development,  to  her  personal  knowledge.  Some  of  the  most 
deeply  tragic  and  romantic,  some  of  the  most  terrible  inci¬ 
dents,  have  also  their  parallel  in  reality.  The  incident  of 
the  mother’s  crossing  the  Ohio  River  on  the  ice  is  a  well- 
known  fact.  The  story  of  “  old  Prue  ”  (Chapter  XIX.)  was 
an  incident  that  fell  under  the  personal  observation  of  a 
brother  of  the  writer,  then  collecting-clerk  to  a  large  mer¬ 
cantile  house  in  New  Orleans.  From  the  same  source  was 
derived  the  character  of  the  planter  Legree.  Of  him  her 
brother  thus  wrote,  speaking  of  visiting  his  plantation  on  a 
collecting  tour:  “  He  actually  made  me  feel  of  his  fist, 
which  was  like  a  blacksmith’s  hammer,  or  a  nodule  of  iron, 
telling  me  that  it  was  ‘  calloused  with  knocking  down  nig¬ 
gers.’  When  I  left  the  plantation  I  drew  a  long  breath,  and 
felt  as  if  I  had  escaped  from  an  ogre’s  den.” 

That  the  tragical  fate  of  Tom,  also,  has  too  many  times 
had  its  parallel,  there  are  living  witnesses,  all  over  our  land, 
to  testify.  Let  it  be  remembered  that  in  all  Southern  States 
it  is  a  principle  of  jurisprudence  that  no  person  of  colored 
lineage  can  testify  in  a  suit  against  a  white,  and  it  will  be 
easy  to  see  that  such  a  case  may  occur,  wherever  there  is  a 
man  whose  passions  outweigh  his  interests,  and  a  slave  who 
has  manhood  or  principle  enough  to  resist  his  will.  There 
is#  actually,  nothing  to  protect  the  slave’s  life  but  the  char* 


444 


whole  tom’s  cabin  ;  oaf 

acter  of  the  master*  Facts  too  shocking  to  he  contemplated 
occasionally  force  their  way  to  t'  e  public  ear,  and  the  com¬ 
ment  that  one  often  hears  made  on  them  is  more  shocking 
than  the  thing  itself.  It  is  said,  “  Very  likely  such  cases 
may  now  and  then  occur,  but  they  ere  no  sample  of  general 
practice.”  If  the  laws  of  New  England  were  so  arranged 
that  a  master  could  now  and  then  torture  an  apprentice  to 
death,  without  a  possibility  of  being  brought  to  justice, 
would  it  be  received  with  equal  composure?  Would  it  be 
said,  “  These  cases  are  rare,  and  no  samples  of  general  prac¬ 
tice?  ”  This  injustice  is  an  inherent  one  in  the  slave  system, 
—it  cannot  exist  without  it. 

The  public  and  shameless  sale  of  beautiful  mulatto  and 
quadroon  girls  has  acquired  a  notoriety  from  the  incidents 
following  the  capture  of  the  Pearl.  We  extract  the  follow¬ 
ing  from  the  speech  of  Hon.  Horace  Mann,  one  of  the  legal 
counsel  for  the  defendants  in  that  case.  He  says:  “  In  that 
company  of  seventy-six  persons,  who  attempted,  in  1848,  to 
escape  from  the  District  of  Columbia  in  the  schooner  Pearl , 
and  whose  officers  I  assisted  in  defending,  there  were  several 
young  and  healthy  girls,  who  had  those  peculiar  attractions 
of  form  and  feature  which  connoisseurs  prize  so  highly. 
Elizabeth  Russel  was  one  of  them.  She  immediately  fell 
into  the  slavetrader’s  fangs,  and  was  doomed  for  the  New 
Orleans  market.  The  hearts  of  those  that  saw  her  were 
touched  with  pity  for  her  fate.  They  offered  eighteen  hun¬ 
dred  dollars  to  redeem  her;  and  some  there  who  offered  to 
give,  that  would  not  have  much  left  after  the  gift;  but  the 
fiend  of  a  slavetrader  was  inexorable.  She  was  dispatched 
to  New  Orleans;  but,  when  about  halfway  there,  God  had 
mercy  on  her,  and  smote  her  with  death.  There  were  two 
girls  named  Edmundson  in  the  same  company.  When  about 
to  be  sent  to  the  same  market,  an  older  sister  went  to  the 
shambles  to  plead  with  the  wretch  who  owned  them,  for  the 
love  of  God,  to  spare  his  victims.  He  bantered  her,  telling 
what  fine  dresses  and  fine  furniture  they  would  have.  i  Yes/ 
she  said,  ‘  that  may  do  very  well  in  this  life,  but  what  will 
become  of  them  in  the  next?’  They  too  were  sent  to  New 
Orleans;  but  were  afterward  redeemed,  at  an  enormous  ran¬ 
som,  and  brought  back.”  Is  it  not  plain,  from  this,  that  the 
histories  of  Emmeline  and  Cassy  may  have  many  counter¬ 
parts? 

Justice*  too*  obliges  the  author  to  state  that  the  fairness 


445 


XiUfB  AMONG  THE  LOWtf, 

tot  mind  and  generosity  attributed  to  St,  Clare  are  not  with¬ 
out  a  parallel,  as  the  following  anecdote  will  show.  A  few 
years  since  a  young  Southern  gentleman  was  in  Cincinnati 
with  a  favorite  servant  who  had  been  his  personal  attendant 
from  a  boy.  The  young  man  took  advantage  of  this  oppor¬ 
tunity  to  secure  his  own  freedom,  and  fled  to  the  protection 
of  a  Quaker  who  was  quite  noted  in  affairs  of  this  kind.  The 
owner  was  exceedingly  indignant.  He  had  always  treated 
the  slave  with  such  indulgence,  and  his  confidence  in  his 
affection  was  such,  that  he  believed  he  must  have  been  prac¬ 
ticed  upon  to  induce  him  to  revolt  from  him.  He  visited  the 
Quaker  in  high  anger;  but,  being  possessed  of  uncommon 
.candor  and  fairness,  was  soon  quieted  by  his  arguments  and 
representations.  It  was  a  side  of  the  subject  which  he  never 
had  heard, —never  had  thought  on;  and  he  immediately  told 
the  Quaker  that,  if  his  slave  would  to  his  own  face  say  that 
it  was  his  desire  to  be  free,  he  would  liberate  him.  An 
interview  was  forthwith  procured,  and  Nathan  was  asked  by 
his  young  master  whether  he  had  ever  had  any  reason  to 
complain  of  his  treatment  in  any  respect. 

“  No,  mas’r,”  said  Nathan;  “you’ve  always  been  good  to 
me.  ” 

“  Well,  then,  why  do  you  want  to  leave  me?  ” 

“  Mas’r  may  die,  and  then  who  get  me? — I'd  rather  be  a 
free  man.” 

After  some  deliberation  the  young  master  replied, 
“  Nathan,  in  your  place  I  think  I  should  feel  very  much  so 
myself.  You  are  free.” 

He  immediately  made  him  out  free  papers,  deposited  a 
sum  of  money  in  the  hands  of  the  Quaker  to  be  judiciously 
used  in  assisting  him  to  start  in  life,  and  left  a  very  sensible 
and  kind  letter  of  advice  to  the  young  man.  That  letter 
was,  for  some  time,  in  the  writer’s  hands. 

The  author  hopes  she  has  done  justice  to  that  nobility, 
generosity,  and  humanity  which  in  many  cases  characterize 
individuals  at  the  South.  Such  instances  save  us  from  utter 
despair  of  our  kind.  But  she  asks  any  nerson  who  knows 
the  world,  are  such  characters  common  anywhere? 

For  many  years  of  her  life  the  author  avoided  all  reading 
upon  or  allusion  to  the  subject  of  slavery,  considering  it  as 
too  painful  to  be  inquired  into,  and  one  which  advancing 
light  and  civilization  would  certainly  live  down.  But,  since 
the  fogrtaiatfrre  act  of  1850,  when  she  heard,  with  perfect 


446 


UNCLE  tom’s  cabin  ;  OR, 

surprise  and  consternation,  Christian  and  humane  people 
actually  recommending  the  remanding  the  escaped  fugitives 
into  slavery  as  a  duty  binding  on  good  citizens, — when  she 
heard,  on  all  hands,  from  kind,  compassionate,  and  estimable 
people  in  the  free  States  of  the  North,  deliberations  and  dis¬ 
cussions  as  to  what  Christian  duty  could  be  on  this  head, — 
she  could  only  think:  These  men  and  Christians  cannot 
know  what  slavery  is;  if  they  did,  such  a  question  could 
never  be  open  for  discussion.  And  from  this  arose  a  desire 
to  exhibit  it  in  a  living  dramatic  reality .  She  has  endeavored 
to  show  it  fairly,  in  its  best  and  worst  phases.  In  its  best 
aspect  she  has,  perhaps,  been  successful;  but,  oh!  who  shall 
say  what  yet  remains  untold  in  that  valley  and  shadow  of 
death  that  lies  the  other  side? 

To  you,  generous,  noble-minded  men  and  women  of  the 
South, — you,  whose  virtue,  and  magnanimity,  and  purity  of 
character  are  the  greater  for  the  severer  trial  it  has  encoun¬ 
tered, — to  you  is  her  appeal.  Have  you  not,  in  your  own 
secret  souls,  in  your  own  private  conversings,  felt  that  there 
are  woes  and  evils  in  this  accursed  system  far  beyond  what 
are  here  shadowed  or  can  be  shadowed?  Can  it  be  other¬ 
wise?  Is  man  ever  a  creature  to  be  trusted  with  wholly  irre¬ 
sponsible  power?  And  does  not  the  slave  system,  by  denying 
the  slave  all  legal  right  of  testimony,  make  every  individual 
owner  an  irresponsible  despot?  Can  anybody  fail  to  make 
the  inference  what  the  practical  result  will  be?  If  there  is, 
as  we  admit,  a  public  sentiment  among  you,  men  of  honor, 
justice,  and  humanity,  is  there  not  also  another  kind  of  pub¬ 
lic  sentiment  among  the  ruffian,  the  brutal,  the  debased? 
And  cannot  the  ruffian,  the  brutal,  the  debased,  by  slave  law, 
own  just  as  many  slaves  as  the  best  and  purest?  Are  the 
honorable,  the  just,  the  high-minded,  and  compassionate 
the  majority  anywhere  in  this  world? 

The  slave-trade  is  now,  by  American  law,  eonisdered  as 
piracy.  But  a  slave-trade,  as  systematic  as  r  rar  was  carried 
on  on  the  coast  of  Africa,  is  an  inevitable  Cendant  and  re¬ 
sult  of  American  slavery.  And  its  her  jreak  and  its  hor¬ 
rors,  can  they  be  told? 

The  writer  has  given  only  a  faint  shadow,  a  dim  picture 
of  the  anguish  and  despair  that  are  at  this  very  moment 
riving  thousands  of  hearts,  shattering  thousands  of  families, 
and  driving  a  helpless  and  sensitive  race  to  frenzy  and 
^espair  There  are  those  living  who  know  the  mothers 


I&FE  AMONG  THH. LOWLY. 


447 


irhom  this  accursed  traffic  has  driven  to  the  murder  of  their 
children;  and  themselves  seeking  in  death  a  shelter  from 
woes  more  dreaded  than  death.  Nothing  of  tragedy  can  be 
written,  can  be  spoken,  can  be  conceived  that  equals  the 
frightful  reality  of  scenes  daily  and  hourly  acting  on  our 
shores,  beneath  the  shadow  of  American  law  and  the  shadow 
of  the  cross  of  Christ. 

And  now,  men  and  women  of  America,  is  this  a  thing  to 
be  trifled  with,  apologized  for,  and  passed  over  in  silence? 
Farmers  of  Massachusetts,  of  New  Hampshire,  of  Vermont, 
of  Connecticut,  who  read  this  book  by  the  blaze  of  your  win¬ 
ter-evening  fire, — strong-hearted,  generous  sailors  and  ship¬ 
owners  of  Maine, — is  this  a  thing  for  you  to  countenance 
and  encourage?  Brave  and  generous  men  of  New  York, 
farmers  of  rich  and  joyous  Ohio,  and  ye  of  the  wide  prairie 
States, — answer,  is  this  a  thing  for  you  to  protect  and  coun¬ 
tenance?  And  you,  mothers  of  America, — you,  who  have 
learned,  by  the  cradles  of  your  own  children,  to  love  and  feel 
for  all  mankind, — by  the  sacred  love  you  bear  your  child;  by 
your  joy  in  his  beautiful,  spotless  infancy;  by  the  motherly 
pity  and  tenderness  with  which  you  guide  his  growing  years; 
by  the  anxieties  of  his  education;  by  the  prayers  you  breathe 
for  his  soul’s  eternal  good; — I  beseech  you,  pity  the  mother 
who  has  all  your  affections,  and  not  one  legal  right  to  pro¬ 
tect,  guide,  or  educate  the  child  of  her  bosom!  By  the  sick 
hour  of  your  child;  by  those  dying  eyes,  which  you  can  never 
forget;  by  those  last  cries,  that  wrung  your  heart  when  you 
could  neither  help  nor  save;  by  the  desolation  of  that  empty 
cradle,  that  silent  nursery, — I  beseech  you,  pity  those 
mothers  that  are  constantly  made  childless  by  the  American 
slave-trade!  And  say,  mothers  of  America,  is  this  thing  to 
be  defended,  sympathized  with,  passed  over  in  silence? 

Do  you  say  that  the  people  of  the  free  States  have  noth¬ 
ing  to  do  with  it,  and  can  do  nothing?  Would  to  God  this 
were  true!  But  it  is  not  true.  The  people  of  the  free  States 
have  defended,  encouraged,  and  participated;  and  are  more 
guilty  for  it,  before  God,  than  the  South,  in  that  they  have 
not  the  apology  of  education  or  custom. 

If  the  mothers  of  the  free  States  had  all  felt  as  they 
should,  in  times  past,  the  sons  of  the  free  States  would  not 
have  been  the  holders  and,  proverbially,  the  hardest  masters 
of  slaves;  the  sons  of  the  free  States  would  not  have  connived 
at  the  *xtw&ion  of  slavery,  in  our  national  body>  tt  *ons  of 


448 


wmahm  tom’s  cabin  ; 

the  free  States  would  not,  as  they  do,  trade  the  souls  an! 
bodies  of  men  as  an  equivalent  to  money  in  their  mercantile 
dealings.  There  are  multitudes  of  slaves  temporarily  owned, 
and  sold  again,  by  merchants  in  Northern  cities;  and  shall 
the  whole  guilt  or  obloquy  of  slavery  fall  only  on  the  South? 

Northern  men,  Northern  mothers,  Northern  Christians 
have  something  more  to  do  than  denounce  their  brethren  at 
the  South;  they  have  to  look  to  the  evil  among  themselves. 

But  what  can  any  individual  do?  Of  that  every  individual 
can  judge.  There  is  one  thing  that  every  individual  can  do, 
— they  can  see  to  it  that  they  feel  right .  An  atmosphere  of 
sympathetic  influence  encircle?  every  human  being;  and  the 
man  or  woman  who  feels  strongly,  healthily,  and  justly  on 
the  great  interests  of  humanity  is  a  constant  benefactor  to 
the  human  race.  See,  then,  to  your  sympathies  in  this  mat¬ 
ter!  Are  they  in  harmony  with  the  sympathies  of  Christ? 
or  are  they  swayed  and  perverted  by  the  sophistries  of 
worldly  policy? 

Christian  men  and  women  of  the  North!  still  further, — 
you  have  another  power;  you  can  pray!  Do  you  believe  in 
prayer  or  has  it  become  an  indistinct  apostolic  tradition? 
You  pray  for  the  heathen  abroad;  pray  also  for  the  heathen 
at  home.  And  pray  for  those  distressed  Christians  whose 
chance  of  religious  improvement  is  an  accident  of  trade 
and  sale;  from  whom  any  adherence  to  the  morals  of 
Christianity  is,  in  many  cases,  an  impossibility,  unless  they 
have  given  them  from  above  the  courage  and  grace  of 
martyrdom. 

But  still  more.  On  the  shores  of  our  free  States  are 
emerging  the  poor,  shattered,  broken  remnants  of  families, 
— men  and  women,  escaped  by  miraculous  providences  from 
surges  of  slavery,— feeble  in  knowledge  and,  in  many  cases, 
infirm  in  moral  constitution,  from  a  system  which  confounds 
and  confuses  every  principle  of  Christianity  and  morality. 
They  come  to  seek  a  refuge  among  you;  they  come  to  seek 
education,  knowledge,  Christianity. 

What  do  we  owe  to  these  poor  unfortunates,  0  Christians? 
Does  not  every  American  Christian  owe  to  the  African  race 
some  effort  at  reparation  for  the  wrongs  that  the  American 
nation  has  brought  upon  them?  Shall  the  doors  of  churches 
and  school-houses  be  shut  upon  them?  Shall  States  arise 
and  shake  them  out?  Shall  the  Church  of  Christ  hear  im 
silence  th*  taunt  that  is  thrown  at  them  and  shnAfc  away} 


449 


OFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLTT. 

from  the  helpless  hand  that  they  stretch  out;  and,  by  her 
silence,  encourage  the  cruelty  that  would  chase  them  from 
our  borders?  If  it  must  be  so,  it  will  be  a  mournful  spectacle. 
If  it  must  be  so,  the  country  will  have  reason  to  tremble 
when  it  remembers  that  the  fate  of  nations  is  in  the  hands 
of  One  who  is  very  pitiful  and  of  tender  compassion. 

Do  you  say,  “  We  don’t  want  them  here;  let  them  go  to 
Africa?” 

That  the  providence  of  God  has  provided  a  refuge  in 
Africa  is,  indeed,  a  great  and  noticeable  fact;  but  that  is 
no  reason  why  the  Church  of  Christ  should  throw  off  that 
responsibility  to  this  outcast  race  which  her  profession  de¬ 
mands  of  her. 

To  fill  up  Liberia  with  an  ignorant,  inexperienced,  half- 
barbarized  race  just  escaped  from  the  chains  of  slavery  would 
be  only  to  prolong  for  ages  the  period  of  struggle  and  con¬ 
flict  which  attends  the  inception  of  new  enterprises.  Let 
the  Church  of  the  North  receive  these  poor  sufferers  in  the 
spirit  of  Christ;  receive  them  to  the  educating  advantages 
of  Christian  republican  society  and  schools,  until  they  have 
attained  to  somewhat  of  a  moral  and  intellectual  maturity, 
and  then  assist  them  in  their  passage  to  those  shores  where 
they  may  put  in  practice  the  lessons  they  have  learned  in 
America. 

There  is  a  body  of  men  at  the  North,  comparatively  small, 
who  have  been  doing  this;  and,  as  the  result,  this  country 
has  already  seen  examples  of  men,  formerly  slaves,  who  have 
rapidly  acquired  property,  reputation,  and  education. 
Talent  has  been  developed,  which,  considering  the  circum¬ 
stances,  is  certainly  remarkable;  and,  for  moral  traits  of 
honesty,  kindness,  tenderness  of  feeling,— for  heroic  efforts 
and  self-denials,  endured  for  the  ransom  of  brethren  and 
friends  yet  in  slavery,— they  have  been  remarkable  to  a  de¬ 
gree  that,  considering  the  influence  under  which  they  were 
born,  is  surprising. 

The  writer  has  lived  for  many  years  on  the  frontier  line 
of  slave  States,  and  has  had  great  opportunities  of  observa¬ 
tion  among  those  who  formerly  were  slaves.  They  have  been 
in  her  family  as  servants;  and,  in  default  of  any  other 
school  to  receive  them,  she  has,  in  many  cases,  had  them  in¬ 
structed  in  a  family  school  with  her  own  children.  She  has 
also  the  testimony  of  missionaries  among  the  fugitives  in 
Canada  iV  coincidence  with  her  own  experience®  Wd  her  de« 


UttOIiB  TOMvS  CABIN  ;  OB, 

Auctions  with  regard  to  the  capabilities  of  the  race  are 
encouraging  in  the  highest  degree. 

The  first  desire  of  the  emancipated  slave,  generally,  is 
for  education .  There  is  nothing  that  they  are  not  willing 
to  give  or  to  do  to  have  their  children  instructed;  and,  so  far 
as  the  writer  has  observed  herself,  or  taken  the  testimony 
of  teachers  among  them,  they  are  remarkably  intelligent 
and  quick  to  learn.  The  results  of  schools  founded  for  them 
by  benevolent  individuals  in  Cincinnati  fully  establish  this. 

The  author  gives  the  following  statement  of  facts,  on  the 
authority  of  Professor  C.  E.  Stowe,  then  of  Lane  Seminary, 
Ohio,  with  regard  to  emancipated  slaves  now  resident  in  Cin¬ 
cinnati;  given  to  show  the  capability  of  the  race,  even  with¬ 
out  any  very  particular  assistance  or  encouragement. 

The  initial  letters  alone  are  given.  They  are  all  residents 
of  Cincinnati. 

“  B— — ...  Puniture-maker;  twenty  years  in  the  city;  worth 
ten  thousand  dollars,  all  his  own  earnings;  a  Baptist. 

“  C- — — .  Full  black;  stolen  from  Africa;  sold  in  New 
Orleans;  been  free  fifteen  years;  paid  for  himself  six  hun¬ 
dred  dollars;  a  farmer;  owns  several  farms  in  Indiana;  Pres¬ 
byterian;  probably  worth  fifteen  or  twenty  thousand  dollars, 
all  earned  by  himself. 

“  K- - .  Full  black;  dealer  in  real  estate;  worth  thirty 

thousand  dollars;  about  forty  years  old;  free  six  years;  paid 
eighteen  hundred  dollars  for  his  family;  member  of  the  Bap¬ 
tist  Church;  received  a  legacy  from  his  master,  which  he 
has  taken  good  care  of  and  increased. 

“  G - .  Full  black;  coal-dealer;  about  thirty  years  old; 

worth  eighteen  thousand  dollars;  paid  for  himself  twice, 
being  once  defrauded  to  the  amount  of  sixteen  hundred  dol¬ 
lars;  made  all  his  money  by  his  own  efforts, — much  of  it 
while  a  slave,  hiring  his  time  of  his  master  and  doing  bus¬ 
iness  for  himself;  a  fine,  gentlemanly  fellow. 

.  Three-fourths  black;  barber  and  waiter;  from 
Kentucky;  nineteen  years  free;  paid  for  self  and  family  over 
three  thousand  dollars;  worth  twenty  thousand  dollars,  all 
his  own  earnings;  deacon  in  the  Baptist  Church. 

“  G.  D— — .  Three-fourths  black;  whitewasher;  from 
Kentucky;  nine  years  free;  paid  fifteen  hundred  dollars  for 
self  and  family;  recently  died,  aged  sixty;  worth  si x  thour 
sand  dollars.” 

Stowe  says;  "  With  all  these,  I 


SJFB  AMONG  THE  LOWLY.  451 

have  been  for  some  years  personally  acquainted,  and  make 
my  statements  from  my  own  knowledge.” 

The  writer  well  remembers  an  aged  colored  woman,  who 
was  employed  as  a  washerwoman  in  her  father’s  family.  The 
daughter  of  this  woman  married  a  slave.  She  was  a  remarka¬ 
bly  active  and  capable  young  woman  and,  by  her  industry 
and  thrift  and  the  most  persevering  self-denial,  raised  nine 
hundred  dollars  for  her  husband’s  freedom,  which  she  paid, 
as  she  raised  it,  into  the  hands  of  his  master.  She  yet  wanted 
a  hundred  dollars  of  the  price  when  he  died.  She  never  re« 
covered  any  of  the  money. 

These  are  but  few  facts,  among  multitudes,  which  might 
be  adduced  to  show  the  self-denial,  energy,  patience,  and 
honesty  which  the  slave  has  exhibited  in  a  state  of  freedom. 

And  let  it  be  remembered  that  these  individuals  have  thus 
bravely  succeeded  in  conquering  for  themselves  comparative 
wealth  and  social  position  in  the  face  of  every  disadvantage 
and  discouragement.  The  colored  man  by  the  laws  of  Ohio 
cannot  be  a  voter,  and,  still  within  a  few  years,  was  even 
denied  the  right  of  testimony  in  legal  suits  with  the  white. 
Nor  are  these  instances  confined  to  the  State  of  Ohio.  In 
all  States  of  the  Union  we  see  men,  but  yesterday  burst  from 
the  shackles  of  slavery,  who,  by  a  self-educating  force  which 
cannot  be  too  much  admired,  have  risen  to  highly  respecta¬ 
ble  stations  in  society.  Pennington,  among  clergymen, 
Douglas  and  Ward,  among  editors,  are  well-known  instances. 

If  this  persecuted  race,  with  every  discouragement  and 
disadvantage,  have  done  thus  much,  how  much  more  they 
might  do  if  the  Christian  Church  would  act  toward  them  in 
the  spirit  of  her  Lord! 

This  is  an  age  of  the  world  when  nations  are  trembling 
and  convulsed.  A  mighty  influence  is  abroad,  surging  and 
heaving  the  world  as  with  an  earthquake.  And  is  America 
safe?  Every  nation  that  carries  in  its  bosom  great  and  un¬ 
redressed  injustice  has  in  it  the  elements  of  this  last  con¬ 
vulsion. 

For  w'hat  is  this  mighty  influence,  thus  rousing  in  all  na¬ 
tions  and  languages  those  groanings  that  cannot  be  uttered 
for  mams  freedom  and  equality? 

0  Church  of  Christ,  read  the  signs  of  the  times!  Is  not 
this  power  the  spirit  of  Him  whose  kingdom  is  yet  to  come., 
and  whose  will  is  to  be  done  on  earth  as  it  is  in  heaven? 

But  wh^  may  abide  the  day  of  his  appearing?  r  that 


451 


UNCLE  TOM^S  CABIN, 


day  shall  bum  as  an  oven:  and  He  shall  appear  as  a  swift  wit* 
ness  against  those  that  oppress  the  hireling  in  his  wages, 
the  widow  and  the  fatherless,  and  that  turn  aside  the  stranger 
in  his  right :  and  He  shall  break  in  pieces  the  oppressor.” 

Are  not  these  dread  words  for  a  nation  bearing  in  her 
bosom  so  mighty  an  injustice?  Christians!  every  time  that 
you  pray  that  the  kingdom  of  Christ  may  come,  can  you 
forget  that  prophecy  associates  in  dread  fellowship  the  day 
of  vengeance  with  the  year  of  His  redeemed? 

A  day  of  grace  is  yet  held  out  to  us.  Both  North  and 
South  have  been  guilty  before  God;  and  the  Christian 
Church  has  a  heavy  account  to  answer.  Not  by  combining 
together  to  protect  injustice  and  cruelty  and  making  a  com¬ 
mon  capital  of  sin,  is  this  Union  to  be  saved, — but  by  re¬ 
pentance,  justice,  and  mercy;  for,  not  surer  is  the  eternal 
law  by  which  the  millstone  sinks  in  the  ocean  than  that 
stronger  law  by  which  injustice  and  cruelty  shall  bring  on 
nations  the  wrath  of  Almighty  God! 


THE  Em 


Collection  of 
GhsossC  Q.  Beyah